


Like a Wave

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gayness, Guilt, M/M, Sex, Summer, what more do you want, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Patrick is ordinary. He’s got a house, a wife, a family. Patrick is happy. There’s just one thing that doesn’t feel quite right – something he can’t admit to anyone, even himself.When Patrick books a stay at the Phoenix Beach Resort, it’s to put his mind at ease. He fails.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 124
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

Underneath Patrick’s wedding ring, there’s a faint white line of skin that hasn’t seen the sun in five years. It’s the same colour as the tops of his thighs and the planes of his chest. When he starts to imagine it matching his forearms, he shoves the ring back into place like a kid caught peeking under a band-aid. It’s an experiment, that’s all. There’s no reason for him to be feeling so intrinsically sick.

“Patrick,” Toby says in that voice that means he’s delaying brushing his teeth.

Patrick forces a smile. “Yes,” he says as the boy meanders into his parents’ bedroom looking far too innocent.

“Why can’t we come with you?” He sits himself next to Patrick and pokes Patrick’s calves with his toes.

“I gotta work, buddy,” Patrick says, “it’s all grown-up meetings, you’d be pretty bored.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Toby insists, “I could take some toys. I’d be really quiet!”

Patrick hauls Toby into his lap and begins to tickle him. “You,” he says over the boy’s giggles, “have never been quiet in your life.”

As if to prove his point, Toby begins to shriek, his flailing limbs catching Patrick in soft and painful places. Patrick pins him down and smooths his ruffled hair.

“Your dad’s taking you to the aquarium this weekend, right?” Patrick says, “That’s way more exciting.”

“But I want _you_ to be there,” Toby whines, wriggling himself upright and slumping against Patrick’s chest.

“It’s only two weeks,” Patrick says, trying to internalise it, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Toby pouts. “Two weeks is so long,” he mumbles. Patrick wholly agrees.

“I know. But you can talk to me on mom’s phone if you ask her _really_ nicely.”

“Can I call when I’m at the aquarium?”

“You’ll have to talk to your dad about that,” Patrick says, “but, either way, I want to hear all about it.”

“Okay,” Toby says, getting bored with the hug and squirming out of Patrick’s arms.

“Love you, little man,” Patrick tells him. “Now, stop stalling and clean your teeth!”

Toby scowls just like his mother does when Patrick reminds her to stop biting her nails. He wants to badly to be the man his (nearly) child thinks he is.

“Have you packed enough shorts?” Connie asks as she bustles into the bedroom with an armful of freshly ironed shirts. “You better sunbathe on my behalf.”

Patrick’s not sure anyone, on any resort, would appreciate his mismatched body lumbering around the beach, but there’ll be at least one other person who isn’t a model, right? A nasty voice in Patrick’s mind doubts it. “Yeah,” he says. “’Course.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” Connie says, the bed sagging as she sits down next to him. Patrick hasn’t been very excited at all, lately – in every sense of the word, much to Patrick’s repeated humiliation. “The boys and I will be fine.”

“I know,” Patrick says, even though he doesn’t, “it just – doesn’t feel right.”

Her hand finds its way between his shoulder blades and scratches lovingly. “It feels strange because you haven’t relaxed in, like – I mean, have you ever relaxed?”

Patrick laughs, releasing the breath he’d been holding. “I dunno, it’s just gonna be weird.”

“You’d better get your ass in the sea when the conference ends,” she warns, “I want photo proof.”

“Fine,” Patrick concedes, touching a hand to the small of her back, “I might be able to bring myself to paddle.”

“Oh, also,” Connie says, her voice dropping to a whisper. She glances at the door in search of children – there are none. “I was gonna have a word with you when you got back, but you might as well know now – I was having a look through the desktop, and I found some, uh,” she tails off, fumbling for the right word.

“Porn?” Patrick asks. It’s a common occurrence since Owen turned thirteen. “Because, I’ve found some software that –“

“No, no,” Connie says, “not quite. More like, uh, articles? About being – gay?”

The tension returns to Patrick’s shoulders. “Oh,” he says. “Well – it’s natural for him to be curious, I guess.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “but I don’t want him thinking it’s anything to be ashamed of. I might have a word with him, let him know it’s okay. You know what his dad’s like with this kind of thing. Just, you know, if he wants to talk, he can.”

“I’ll do it,” Patrick says, “when I get back. It might sound better coming from a dude.”

“Thanks, love,” she says, patting the nape of his neck. “And make it clear that whatever happens, we won’t love him any less. It’s not a big deal, y’know?”

“I know,” Patrick says.

It seems like a big deal, though, when his (almost) sons are hugging him goodbye, when his wife brings her hands to his face and kisses him softly even though her hips feel strange under his hands and their lips don’t fit quite right. It seems like a big deal when the front door slams shut and Patrick is left, totally alone, in a house that’s completely silent, in a body he barely recognises anymore.

He loads his case into the car and checks the back door. He puts away the kid’s laundry and makes their beds. He puts task after task in front of leaving until there’s nothing left to do but go. As he checks their bedroom one final time, his eyes trail back to the ring on his finger. When he eases it off, he doesn’t feel any lighter. He tucks his marriage to the back of the bedside drawer and leaves before he changes his mind.

-

Patrick reacts like a rabid dog when he sees the ocean approaching – his throat tightens and his skin crawls, his fingers clenching round the wheel. It’s as if even the family in the SUV behind him knows what he’s up to, where he’s going. He swears they’re following him. It’ll be in the news tomorrow – _Man Who Has It All Betrays Loving Family on a Whim –_ there’ll be pictures of him, graphs of his declining impulse control, self-help books that use him as a deterrent.

As the SatNav informs him he’s fifteen minutes from the gates to hell, he tries to reason with himself. This isn’t a statement, or an escape, or a betrayal, it’s – a holiday. He’s here to relax, to switch off, and if he happens to undermine the nasty things his mind has been whispering at him for the past few years, well, that’s just his good luck. He clings to this thought – he’s here to prove himself wrong.

Carmel-by-the-sea is the closest thing to _quaint_ California has to offer – the houses are arranged in artful clusters, blending with the vegetation. _Secluded_ was the word Patrick Googled, and he’s yet to see a single person. The tension in his chest begins to subside; this whole venture will be a whole lot easier if no-one is there to witness him fall metaphorically flat on his overwhelmingly literal ass.

The Phoenix Beach Resort is as ordinary as anybody but Patrick might expect – there’s no parade, no topless men in thigh-highs strutting to take his booking reference, just a bored-looking valet who seems mildly pissed off at Patrick’s arrival. The only thing that gives it away is the sun-bleached rainbow flag fluttering above the porch. Patrick decides not to look at it.

“Welcome to the Phoenix,” the man says as Patrick opens his door. “Can I help you with your bags?” 

No man on earth could lift the weight of Patrick’s guilt, but his suitcase full of unfortunate fashion is manageable. “Uh, yeah, it’s in the trunk. Thanks.” 

“If you’d like to head inside, your bags will be sent up to your room and I’ll take your car for you.” 

Patrick swallows, leaving the keys in the ignition and looking up at the smiling valet. He seems normal - Patrick peers at his right ear in search of a piercing but sees nothing. Perhaps that’s not the trend anymore. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” 

“Oh! Yes,” Patrick says quickly, tearing his eyes from the man in the hopes of avoiding a lawsuit, “I’ll just - yes.” He gets out of the car and wipes his sweating palms on his jeans. Once the car is gone, there’s no going back. He watches it drive away with a heavy heart.

“Just this way, sir,” another, equally handsome valet says. If everyone at this resort is that good-looking, Patrick might just walk out into the sea and never return.

The lobby isn’t quite as grand as their website suggested – the ceilings are lower and the potted plants droopier, but it’s somehow airy and cosy at the same time and Patrick’s grateful for the rush of AC over his reddened face. The receptionist is a woman. Patrick’s not sure why this is reassuring, but maybe if he stares at her cleavage long enough, the security guards will make his decision for him.

“Welcome to the Phoenix,” she smiles as he approaches, “can I take your name?” 

She’s got one side of her head shaved and a tattoo peeking out from her collar. Patrick wonders if she’s a lesbian. He decides to assume she isn’t for the sake of his own sanity. Perhaps they can begin a passionate affair - he tries not to think about why this seems less taboo than ogling the valet. “Patrick. Stumph,” he says. 

After a few moments of silence in which Patrick starts to hope he booked this in a dream, she places a key on the desk and smiles at him. “You’re in room one-oh-five. Breakfast is served from seven ‘til eleven, and the pool closes at midnight. If you’d like access to the gym…” Patrick stops listening as two men enter the building, lounging behind him as they wait to check in. He doesn’t look long enough to see if they’re holding hands, but he can hear them talk, giggle to one another, surely about Patrick.

“...any questions, feel free to ask.” 

“Thanks,” Patrick says, already hurrying towards the elevator and away from the two men. 

“Mr. Stumph,” the receptionist calls, and Patrick stops in his tracks - what can she possibly want now, she already knows things his own wife doesn’t, how much further can she humiliate him in front of the sniggering pair - “you left your keycard.” 

Patrick’s face heats to roughly the same temperature as the well-advertised sauna and he shuffles back towards the front desk, catching the eye of one of the men. He’s attractive, of course he is, tall and grinning and beautiful, his arm slung around the shoulders of the other man whom Patrick doesn’t dare chance a glance at for the sake of his own ruined self-esteem. He snatches the card from the desk and tries to maintain a smile. He hears the man laugh and his soul twists in on itself - if only his dick were quite as perturbed. 

The elevator ride is spent praying that no-one will join him. When the doors open, he peers down the hall in case of more smarmy specimens and scurries to his room, struggling with the key card before he finally falls into privacy. 

He half expects the room to be adorned with leopard print carpet and a porn star mural, but it’s lovely, a perfect ocean view stretching out in front of him and crisp white bed sheets making his eyes sting. The tall, elegant mirror in the far corner shows him exactly what he looks like - there’s a splodge of mayonnaise on his ratty blue t-shirt and his face is flushed with a mixture of heat and humiliation. Neither look good on him. 

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from his wife telling him to let her know once he’s arrived safe at the non-existent sales convention. He types out a response with his lip clamped between his teeth and presses send without looking, collapsing onto the bed staring up at the blank ceiling. He’s pretty sure this was the biggest mistake of his life. A decent man would be on his way home by now. 

Then again, a decent man wouldn’t have booked two weeks away to sate his curiosities. As he runs his hands across the sheets, he wonders how many men have slept here, fucked here. He doesn’t plan on adding to that statistic - he’s here simply to observe, to discover, to show himself what the consequences of all these feelings could really be and whether he’d like to face up to them. But a decent man wouldn’t have taken off his wedding ring. 

After a while, he creeps out to the balcony and takes a deep breath of sea air. The beach below is beautiful, serene, the sand dotted with families, couples that make Patrick’s heart judder with confusing feelings. It can’t be right, it just _can’t -_ children need a mother and a father. He pushes away thoughts of his own parents, firmly divorced. 

By the time he’s unpacked, taken a shower, and flicked through the TV channels until he found an episode of Cheers, the sun is setting over the beach. He’s survived day one. Now all he has to do is find ways to waste the rest of the days until he can go home and call this a failure. He curls up in his towel on the bed. It’s his holiday. If he wants to spend it holed up in his room like a mole-rat, he will.

He hits a low point when he orders a bottle of wine and has to specify one glass, not two. It’s embarrassment that manoeuvres him into his pyjamas; the last thing the handsome attendant needs to see is Patrick’s sagging torso in a towel. And he _is_ handsome, just like everyone else. Handsome and young and confident. Patrick can at least take some solace in the fact that so far, the only thing he has in common with gay men is a penis and a love of Meryl Streep. He takes a big gulp of wine and barely tastes it. If he’s going to be sad, he can at least be drunk about it.

What with kids, work and a burden of guilt that would make Atlas wince, sleep hasn’t been Patrick’s friend in the last few weeks – but tonight, alone and travel-worn, half a bottle of wine is all it takes to knock Patrick out. He sleeps with the ease of a driver alone on the highway.

He wakes to the car-wreck of sobriety and spends half an hour wondering whether the ceiling fan could support his weight. A good luck text from Connie lights up his phone. He’s become the type of man who lies to his wife. He’s a sitcom caricature, a chick-flick villain. The audience will cheer when he’s kicked out and exchanged for Jude Law.

But by the time he’s splashed some water on his face and taken some deep breaths in the bathroom mirror, he decides he’s thinking too far ahead. He hasn’t actually _done_ anything yet. That’s the point of this, after all – to prove to himself that he doesn’t want to do anything. Or anyone. It’s not about lying to his wife; it’s about shutting up the horrible little voice in his head that calls him a fraud every time he touches her.

He feels like Attenborough in the depths of the Amazon during breakfast. They’re everywhere, all around him – _gay_ people. With _gay_ partners. Patrick’s never seen so many of them in one place. Not all of them are in hot pants, either. Not all of them _aren’t,_ though. How do they get their asses to look so good? The subtle difference between Patrick and Attenborough is that Attenborough probably didn’t want to fuck any of the animals.

But fucking isn’t loving, and porn isn’t reality. This is Patrick’s theory – penises aren’t choosy and he could jerk off to a cucumber sinking into a sheet of polystyrene. The fact that he would fuck any man in this room says as little about his sexuality as his choice of fruit says about his fashion sense. He barely notices he’s dripped strawberry on his shirt.

Drowning his woes in maple syrup is just another in a long line of mistakes Patrick has made – by the time he’s crammed himself into his trunks and made for the pool, he’s begun a descent into a pit of self-hatred that can only be reached through decades of overeating and a floor-length mirror. He ends up staying in the shade with his shirt on, pretending to read a book.

The hotel is lovely – of course it is, it was probably designed by gay people. Patrick hasn’t seen much of it, but the pool at least is beautiful, elegant tables framed with exotic plants and the floor a glistening mosaic. A pathway of sand leads down to the beach, waves of heat blurring the shoreline. Its loveliness is rivalled only by its guests.

The guests are the reason that Patrick, sat in the epicentre of idyllic peace, cannot relax a single atrophied muscle in his chubby body. They must be models. Or bodybuilders. (The guys, that is. The women are lovely but so obviously _not for men_ that Patrick feels compelled to avert his eyes.)

They make it look so easy to simply _be,_ to kiss their boyfriends and hug their children like there’s nothing wrong. They glide in and out of the pool with shimmering skin and slicked-back hair that dries in carefree waves. Patrick wonders what it’s like not to fundamentally hate oneself.

He retreats to the bar once he begins to sweat through his shirt. It’s gone one o’clock, he’s on holiday _and_ it’s all inclusive – he’s pretty sure he’s legally obligated to order a margarita. He dines on chips and olives whilst he reads his book.

He’s coming dangerously close to enjoying himself when the man across the bar intervenes. He’s got big teeth and big eyes and biceps that could crack Patrick’s skull. Patrick grips his book a little tighter and tries to look engrossed. The biceps prevail.

“Hey,” the man says, floating into the seat beside him. “It’s hot out there, right?”

Patrick immediately wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. He’s probably burned. The man is going to inform him that he looks like a beet and should seek medical attention. “Yeah,” Patrick says whilst trying to work out how much of his face he can hide and still appear normal.

“You been here long?” the guy asks.

“Oh – no,” Patrick says, “just grabbing some lunch.”

The guy smiles and it’s brilliant, blinding. “I meant here, like, the hotel.”

“Oh!” Patrick blusters, because of _course_ he did, “Yes, um, this is my first full day.” And his first full conversation with a gay man. It’s not his first time wishing someone would deal him a fatal blow to the head, though. Not even first time today.

“How d’you like it?”

“It’s great,” Patrick says, “the beach is awesome.”

“Right?” the guy says with a tilt of his head. When he leans towards Patrick, Patrick feels a flash of panic – is this flirting? Is this guy flirting with him? He can barely tell with women, let alone men. All of the evidence, including the fact that Patrick is the human form of mashed potato, says _no._ But – the man _is_ smiling a lot.

The strawberry daquiri the barman places in front of the man is quite possibly the gayest drink Patrick’s ever seen, and is not reassuring in the slightest. He swipes a finger through the squirty cream on top and hums as he tastes it, licking his fingers after. Maybe Patrick was wrong. Maybe life _is_ porn.

“What’s your name,” the guy asks. Now, he’s chewing on a cherry. It’s staining his lips a rich red. Patrick swallows the sudden excess of saliva in his mouth.

“Patrick,” he says absently. It won’t matter when he’s in hell.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Phil,” says Phil. Phil needs to back off a little.

Patrick tries to put together a sentence that won’t get him a punch in the jaw. _You’re coming on a little strong, Phil. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Phil. Phil, please, look upon the plethora of finely-toned asses that you could chase after; this one would like to remain un-ploughed._

“Phil, I – “

“Max, this is Patrick,” Phil says, and suddenly another equally beautiful wisp of a man is twining himself around Phil. “He’s new here. Patrick, this is my husband, Max.”

They both grin at him simultaneously. Patrick’s face now resembles the daquiri. If only he, too, had a cocktail stick jabbed in his eye. “Oh. Hi,” Patrick says, shaking Max's hand. Of course Phil wasn’t flirting with him. Why would Phil – assured, amicable _Phil –_ be flirting with Patrick? Aging. Inept. Patrick. He stares into the dregs of his margarita and feels the sting of leftover salt on his tongue.

“How long are you staying?” Max asks. He and his husband look remarkably similar – tall, brown-haired, light-skinned. In porn, the big guy is usually the man, Patrick thinks. There is no big guy here. Who puts what in where?

“Two weeks,” Patrick says.

“Us too,” Phil replies, and they exchange a cute little smile that makes Patrick’s ribcage ache. Their hands are woven together between them. There’s not a lot of that in porn. They look at him like they’re expecting some funny quip, but all Patrick can think of is the typical escape-from-the-wife jokes and these men aren’t exactly the target audience.

“Uh, so,” Patrick tries, “Um. Which of you is like, uh…who – who wears the trousers? Or, like, the Bermudas?”

It becomes quickly clear that this was not the right thing to say. The couple react like he’s shone a light in their eyes; the look they exchange harbours a whole conversation that Patrick is firmly not a part of. “Uh,” Max says at last, “that’s sort of a misconception…”

Hell would be nice. Patrick would happily sit on a red-hot poker if it meant dropping out of existence and away from the wincing faces of Mr. and Mr. Adonis. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, “I didn’t mean to offend you, I just wondered –“

“Buddy, if you’re not gay, maybe don’t come to a gay hotel,” Phil laughs. “Like – it’s not a zoo.”

Patrick’s mouth flaps. “I’m sorry – I didn’t – I’m sorry. I’m gonna, uh – I need to – I’m sorry,” he babbles, gesturing towards the lobby and scrambling off the stool. He leaves his wallet on the bar and has to turn back for it; then, he trips over the hem where the carpet meets the tiles. By the time he stuffs himself into the elevator, he’s flustered and shaky. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here. He presses his palms into his eye-sockets and hopes the elevator cord snaps.

When he arrives at his room, disappointingly alive, the first thing he reaches for is his phone. He’s got to get out of here. He wants his wife, wants her arms around him and her soft laugh in his ear. She always knows what to say, how to make him feel loved. If he leaves now, he’ll barely have been here twenty-four hours. If he leaves now, he might be able to live with himself.

But once he searches his pockets, his bedside cabinets, his bed and pages of his book, it dawns on him that in yet another twist of the rainbow-coloured knife, he’s left his phone at the bar. He sits on the edge of the bed for a few moments, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself down – all he needs to do is walk back to the bar and collect it. If he bites his lip hard enough, he may not notice the rotten tomatoes the entire gay community will pelt at him. 

To his utter relief, the couple have gone by the time Patrick plucks up the courage to show his face again. His phone isn’t on the bar, though – maybe they took it to teach him a lesson. Instantly, he begins to worry about the cost of a new phone, the fact that he can’t text his wife, the boys, can’t access the internet, can’t play Candy Crush. He stares at the spot where he put it like he can will it back into existence, a tactic previously tested on his libido. His success rate is 0/2. He’ll have to resort to human interaction.

The man on the bar isn’t reassuring in the slightest – he is, again, lovely, his long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and tattoos covering his forearms. Patrick clears his throat and the man looks up from the glass he’s cleaning. He snaps his fingers at Patrick.

“It’s you,” he smiles, “you left your phone, right?”

Patrick nods, his mouth already blurting an apology.

“Kept it safe for you,” the man says, reaching behind the bar and producing Patrick’s phone.

“Thanks,” Patrick says, immediately checking it for messages from his wife. There’s nothing. The news of his cultural blunder hasn't yet reached a national platform, then.

“You enjoying it here?” the guy asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick lies, “it’s beautiful.”

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Uh – well, I – uh, I – “ He can’t say yes, he’s got to drive home, he’s going to get in his car and _not_ die in a fiery car wreck and atone for his sins by being the best husband the world has ever seen.

“You were on margarita, right?” the barman says, grabbing a glass from the shelf. “You were talking to Phil.”

“Oh, yeah, but – I shouldn’t – I’m not - I’m not very good at – uh, at –“

“Talking?” the man supplies, his face breaking into a smile. “I’m kidding. Did Phil scare you off?”

Patrick wonders if this guy knows all the gays here. Maybe he’s some sort of gay pied piper. He’s got the hair for it. “No – no, it was my fault, I’m just not – I can’t – I’m not good at – talking,” he finishes with a sigh. His whole life is an upturned bowl of spaghetti.

The guy laughs again. Patrick made him laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s already started making the drink. He has the kind of voice that makes Patrick feel instantly more relaxed. It’d be rude to ask him to stop, right?

“On the rocks, right?” the guy asks. Patrick is still standing five feet away from the bar like an idiot. He casts a mournful look towards reception, then nods. 

“Patrick,” he hears himself blurt. “I’m – Patrick. That’s, like, my name.”

The barman’s gaze rests briefly upon Patrick. “Hey, Patrick. I’m Pete. Nice to meet you.” Maybe it’s just the customer service smile, but he sounds like he actually means it. He has lovely warm eyes, too.

Patrick perches himself on a bar stool and tucks his phone into his pocket. Maybe he could stay just one more night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, brethren, it's Saturday.

Patrick doesn't have many friends. Functioning under observation is not one of his talents; he tends to become trapped in a mirror-maze of his own making, repeatedly analysing every one of his flaws until he eventually concludes that he shouldn't be allowed to appear in public at all. This, plus the shyness and the stammer, means most people give up once they realise Patrick can't often string together a coherent sentence.

But some people _aren't_ most people. Some people allow him the time to escape the maze and find his feet, not too fast or too loud or too close. Once he gets out of his own way, he can become funny, flirtatious, even  confident _.  _ This effect can also be achieved with alcohol. 

He's not  _ drunk -  _ it's seven o'clock on a Tuesday, he's not an animal - but he's tipsy, teetering on the cusp of forgetting himself. With every sip, Patrick's definition of  _ friend  _ slips a little closer to particularly chatty members of staff.

They haven't  talked _ ,  _ per se. He and Pete. Even in a sentence, they don't go together. Pete has served him three drinks in two and a half hours and smiled at him exactly five times. Pete is just doing his job. Patrick has already made a fool of himself once today, and wildly misinterpreting his relationship to an almost complete stranger would only exacerbate the ebb of humiliation in his chest . Still - Pete has lovely eyes.

Pete has lovely  _ everything.  _ He has a wide, toothy grin and warm, light brown skin and big hands. He's probably even got a lovely surname. Patrick spends most of the evening chancing glances at him and trying to think of something funny to say when he orders his next drink.

He quickly rediscovers that an unpleasant side effect of drinking alone is  _ thinking  _ alone; Patrick's thoughts have never been kind to him but lately they've got particularly vicious. As he looks around the bar, he sees people he will never match up to - they're handsome, or if they're not handsome they're funny, or if they're not funny they're social, and if they're none of those things, they're Patrick. This place is full of interesting people who lead interesting lives. Patrick is just a confused straight guy who happens to be spying on them.

He also thinks about Connie. He picks apart each of her texts over the course of the evening, trying to discern whether she knows, whether she's hurt, whether she's changing the locks and burning Patrick's records. He should go up to his room and lose himself in shitty TV - that way, he wouldn't find himself feeling so nauseous every time he sneaks a glance at Pete's ass. It's lovely, of course.

"You know, if you keeping looking at me like that I might have to kick you out for harassment," Pete says, and suddenly he's right in front of Patrick, raising a perfect eyebrow and pursing his full lips.

Patrick feels his face slacken in cartoon horror. "Oh - God, I wasn't looking, I was - I didn't realise - I'm so sorry, I -"

"Whoa, I'm kidding," Pete grins, but his alarm isn't lost on Patrick. He'll be backing away before long. "Man, do you need another drink?"

Patrick blinks. "Oh - no, I'm like this however drunk I am."

Pete laughs, flashing his pointed teeth. "Not quite in vacation mode, no? The beach is the only cure for that, I'm afraid."

With a wince, Patrick slaps his hand on the bar. "Darn it. Knew I'd missed something."

Another laugh. It's gotta be part of Pete's customer service technique.

"Tomorrow," Pete says. "I wanna see you doing laps of the bay."

Patrick cringes. "That's not - I don't - I'd probably get harpooned." When in doubt, make fun of yourself.

Pete's still grinning, but he shakes his head. "Don't say that. I for one would love to see you in trunks."

Patrick laughs because it's very firmly a joke, but heat still rushes to his face at the thought of Pete seeing him half-naked. He's not sure if he's turned on or suicidal. "Um. I - we'll see," Patrick says eventually. "But - don't let me keep you from serving." The bar is still pretty full, and Pete succeeded in securing his five-star review within the first five minutes.

"My shift is over," Pete shrugs. "I can talk to whoever I like."

The revelation that Pete is not, in fact, under obligation to be nice to him blooms in Patrick's chest like a sip of fine whiskey. "Oh," Patrick says. "Well, in that case - um, can I get you a drink?"

Pete holds up a gin and tonic with a curly straw in it. "I'm one step ahead of you," he says.

It turns out they have much more in common than Patrick ever dreamed - Pete's from Chicago, too, and he owns almost as many records as Patrick, even if his taste is utter garbage. It gives them something to argue about, at least. They talk until Pete's down to the dregs of his drink. By the time Pete says goodnight, Patrick feels as if they've been talking for hours. In reality, it's barely nine-thirty.

Still, he drifts up to his room with a strange, fuzzy feeling in his stomach. He spends the remainder of the night on the balcony, gazing out at the black ocean and looking forward to the days ahead for the first time since he arrived. Before he goes to bed, he lays out his trunks as a promise to himself. He will paddle, dammit.

The next morning, he feels a little less like an alien as he sits in the breakfast room. Rather than looking, he listens, and as it turns out, gay couples talk about more or less the same things as straight couples. The ones with children act no different to Patrick and his wife - Patrick still can't quite imagine a family functioning without a mother, but he keeps his mind firmly open as he watches the men at the table closest to him attempt to shovel grapes into their daughter's mouth. She doesn't look like either of them. Owen and Toby don't look like Patrick, either, but he'd take a bullet for them, no question. Perhaps it's not so different.

There's no space left in the shade when Patrick arrives on the beach, so he douses himself in sunscreen and lays himself out on the sand like a greasy Roman candle. The only sun hat he could find was a straw number of Connie's, but it does the job and Patrick's pretty sure that here, of all places, no-one will mind him wearing women's clothes.

His policy of  _ not  _ staring at the men is buried pretty quickly once the couple next to him begin glazing each other in suntan lotion and stretching out. He has no idea how they manage to tan so evenly, the faint impression of abs rippling over their torsos. Patrick wonders if they've already been to the gym this morning, and then wonders how many pounds it's possible to lose in one day. Not enough, probably. He opens his book and hopes his sunglasses hide the fact that he's not reading it.

By LA standards, Carmel isn't hot. Even by Chicago standards, summer temperatures are mild. By Patrick's standards, he's in hell, being slowly and surely boiled by the devil's eager minions. After twenty minutes in the sun, his skin is blotched with red where the sunscreen is too thin, and where it's too thick, he's covered in greasy streaks. Beads of sweat are also beginning to well up over his limbs. He must look like he's melting. He sure  _ feels  _ like he's melting.

The sea seems a lot more daunting now that there are people in it. The couple next to him scampered towards it like dogs, wading up to waist height and splashing water at one another. The whole scene could be a fragrance commercial. He can't go and swim now - they might  _ look  _ at him. They might whisper about  _ that man over there  _ and how much he resembles a tub of festering mayonnaise before they go back to the gym and try their hardest not to look anything like him. Patrick would rather face the heat.

He makes it five more minutes before he gives in and heads back inside. What possessed him to book a beach holiday? Sun, sea and sand are the least relaxing things in the universe and they've left him sweating, self-conscious and, well. Sandy. He'll be flossing it from between his toes for months.

But his scheduled wallowing is interrupted when he runs headlong into a pair of intricately tattooed arms; attached to the arms are large hands that linger on his skin, one on his shoulder, the other on his waist. Before Patrick can fantasise about the possibility of a ballroom dance, there are noises coming from Pete's mouth that Patrick should be listening to. 

"Oh. What?" Patrick says.

"I said, are you alright?" Pete repeats, blinking big brown eyes at him. "You looked like you were in a trance."

"Well, I - uh, I - a handsome man put his hands on me, so..."

Pete barks another of his laughs and drops his fingers from Patrick's torso. At this point Patrick remembers that he is wearing a ratty white t-shirt that Pete can  _ probably  _ see his nipples through. It also clings to his belly in a way that gay guys probably retch over. To solve the nipple problem, at least, he folds his arms over his chest. This emphasises the belly problem. All Patrick can do is sigh and hope Pete has a thing for chubby dads.

"Getting hot out there, right?" Pete says. Patrick scrapes sweat from his forehead and nods.

"I think I need some shade and a cold drink," he says. They're standing in the doorway; he can feel the gentle caress of the air conditioning just beyond the threshold.

"Oh, well, I'm just about to open the beach bar," Pete replies, pointing to a straw hut on the edge of the beach. "We've got umbrellas, so I can satisfy your every desire."

Patrick doesn't doubt this. But indoors - cold, comfortable, indoors is within reach. He can see the leather sofas, can imagine how cool they'll be against his burning skin, the rush of the fans overhead unsticking his clumped hair from his scalp. Cool room, or hot man. Patrick's skin tingles where hot man touched him. Hot man isn't playing fair.

"Okay," Patrick says, stepping back into the sun. Pete's grin eclipses it - he takes the keys from his pocket and rattles them in Patrick's direction, then begins to stroll towards the hut.

"This is where the magic happens," Pete says as he unlocks the bar and swings open the hatches. He seems so in his element as he begins to set up - soon all the lights are on and he's merrily slicing lemon in front of Patrick.

"Is there anything I can do?" Patrick offers tentatively, watching the knife slip dangerously close to Pete's fingers.

Pete looks up and puts down the knife. "You can - uh, put up the umbrellas, if you like. You just slot the little peg into the hole."

Patrick nods. This is his chance to prove he's not a totally incompetent fool, an idiot, a waste of space. Pete's gay. He likes  _ men.  _ Patrick needs to show he's a man.

But Patrick is short. Ridiculously short. Sometimes-wears-heels-for-men short. This situation is a comedy sketch in the making - he'll probably end up being crushed by the umbrella as the whole beach laughs and Pete flounces off with some other guy. Patrick won't have Pete flouncing. Patrick, for some reason, has captured Pete's attention for the time being. He's not about to lose it.

And lose it he does not. He reaches under the umbrella and pushes it open as far as he can reach, until he's on his tiptoes and he's pretty sure his belly is hanging out of his t-shirt. He manages to clamber onto a nearby chair and push the umbrella open - now it's just a case of getting the peg in the hole. Story of his life.

He wants it noted that he very nearly does it. It was so nearly sexy, too - if only he had biceps to flex as he slid the peg home and floated back to the floor. What happens instead is that Patrick misses the hole entirely, drops the slider and feels the flop of canvas over him as the world goes dark.

Perhaps if he stays very still, Pete won't notice. Living the rest of his days under this umbrella doesn't seem so bad. It's cool and dark, at least. It would be a forever home if it wasn't for the fact that it only covers his top half. As always, his ass gives him away.

When he pushes the umbrella open again, Pete's standing on the ground below. Even in the new shade, Patrick feels like he's burning. "You alright?" Pete asks, "you spent a pretty long time under there."

"That's what all the ladies say to me," Patrick sighs.

Pete grins and beckons Patrick down from the chair. "I'll take it from here," he says, "thanks for your help, but I don't think I can let you carry on without investing in some serious public liability insurance."

Patrick is relegated to sitting very still and not touching anything. This suits him pretty well - Pete manages to make umbrella opening look like ballet dancing, his movements strong and certain. Every time he reaches upwards, a little strip of his hips is visible. Patrick allows himself ten seconds of staring before he pulls out his phone and checks his messages. None. He plays Candy Crush until Pete's done.

Even in the shade of the umbrella, Patrick's starting to sweat again. The Diet Coke stuffed full of ice that Pete presses into his hand helps, but the sun is directly above them now and it's determined to thwart Patrick's attempts at flirting. There is a patch of sweat seeping through the front of his shirt. Patrick doubts Pete wants to hang out with anyone so oozy.

When other, prettier guests begin to gather around the bar, Patrick gives in for the second time that day. Pete smiles at them the same way he smiles at Patrick, because it's Pete's  _ job,  _ and Patrick was stupid to think any different. Patrick slips off the chair and places his glass on the bar.

"Hey," Pete says all of a sudden, "are you going?"

Patrick nods. "Yeah, I'm - the heat is a little much."

"Oh, no worries," Pete says. "Maybe I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," Patrick nods. Maybe. A muscled, shirtless man is leaning easily against the bar, sipping something neat and manly. He'll surely keep Pete occupied.

Although, Pete didn't spend most of yesterday evening talking to that guy. Pete also didn't laugh at that guy's attempts to put up an umbrella, or talk about seeing that guy in trunks. Patrick turns back to the bar.

He's asked exactly three people on a date. The first was Katie Mullins, a month before prom. She said no. The second was Sarah Harvey, a friend of a friend, when he was twenty-two and desperate enough to risk his mates' judgement. They managed three weeks before they concluded they weren't compatible. The third was Connie, his future wife, after four years of working together. She was his biggest success before he decided to go dick-hunting in Mordor.

"Um, actually," Patrick says, and Pete stops mid-serve to look at him. "Um. I though - if - I - " After three decades of stammering, it still catches him unawares. He pushes through it. "Maybe we could meet later. At the bar - or, anywhere, whatever, on the beach, or something, I don't know -"

"Okay," Pete says with a smile. "Sure."

"Oh," is apparently the only thing Patrick's brain comes up with.

"My shift's done at five," Pete says. "The beach sounds good."

"Yes," Patrick says, "good. Um. Okay." He throws Pete the best smile he can force and hurries away. At least he remembered his phone, this time.

The rush of excitement that Pete -  _ Pete,  _ lovely, sexy Pete - has agreed to see him alone, outside of work, with no apparent financial or material motives, lasts approximately thirty seconds. It's replaced with a wave of nausea that drives Patrick back up to his room and into the shower - he has to focus on the heat coursing over his skin just to rein in the panic.

He asked a man out. Patrick's not sure whether this counts as cheating. Patrick's also not sure whether this makes him gay. It seems dangerously close to both. He's not intending to kiss Pete, but he's also not  _ not  _ intending to kiss him - kissing is  _ definitely  _ cheating and what next? What are Patrick's intentions? What's he going to tell Pete if Pete wants to go further? What if Pete  _ doesn't  _ want to go further - will Patrick just have to leave this hotel and never return?

He scrubs the sweat from his skin with the tiny bar of hotel soap. Maybe he should just cut out the middle man and leave right now. Asking isn't doing. He could confess everything to his wife and still, maybe, possibly, keep his marriage intact.

The shower doesn't help all that much. He lays on his bed and worries, about what to wear, what to say, what to do if Pete does this, does that, if Pete tries to touch him or murder him or neither or both. The whole thing was a stupid idea, anyway. There's no way in hell he's brave enough to take this any further - all he's doing is setting Pete up for disappointment.

Patrick spends so much time alternating between worrying and snacking that he's almost late - he shoves on his nicest t-shirt and at first, his jeans, before deciding they look too formal and switching to non-waterproof shorts. That way, he's excused from any kind of swimming. He doesn't look at himself in the mirror - it's easier that way.

It occurs to him halfway through the elevator ride that they never specified a place -  _ the beach  _ is pretty broad, what if Patrick can't find him? What if Pete thinks Patrick stood him up? They don't even have one another's phone numbers. Pete doesn't know his last name. What if Pete deliberately engineered this precise situation in order to humiliate Patrick? Maybe there's no date at all - just a crowd of gays ready to string him up and tattoo IMPOSTER on his forehead. Or something with fewer letters. FRAUD, maybe.

He's kept his hat on - woman's or no, he doesn't need Pete knowing he's balding just yet. Sunglasses don't hurt either. Any way he can conceal his appearance is a bonus to Patrick.

Flip-flops were a ridiculous choice of shoes. They're aptly named - they flip sand up at the backs of his legs as he walks along the beach and flop with the sound of someone jerking off a column of polystyrene. They also show his feet. He's pretty sure feet aren't sexy. He'd have been better off with assless shorts.

The terror of being stood up isn't nearly as potent as the terror he feels when he actually  _ sees  _ Pete, lounging by the beach bar, tapping at his phone. The door is fifty feet away. If Patrick ran, he could make it back indoors. Then Pete waves at him. 

"Hey," he calls, jogging over to Patrick. Patrick just stands and stares. He's on a date with a man. He's on a  _ date  _ with a  _ man. _

With a deep breath, he smiles back at Pete. It will, in theory, be fine. He will probably still be alive when this is over. If he can get through the evening without a) running away or b) getting an erection, he can call it a success.

"Nice afternoon?" Pete asks as they begin to walk towards nowhere in particular. Pete hasn't touched Patrick yet; held his hand or taken his waist. Maybe it's not a date at all. Just dudes being bros.

"Yeah, awesome," Patrick says, instead of  _ no, nightmarish.  _ "You?"

"Just working," Pete shrugs. "Afternoon shift can be slow."

"How often do you work there?"

"Just, when I need to. If there's no-one to cover it, I guess. Anyway, I've had enough bar talk for today. What do you do?"

Patrick is an HR rep at a firm that sells ink. His job is like a lot of aspects of his life - fine. Patrick's learned not to talk about it for too long. He brushes over it and hopes Pete doesn't lose interest when he learns that Patrick is no billionaire brainbox.

"Why'd you pick here," Pete asks. "Obviously we get all kinds of guests, but the majority are couples who want to come somewhere they won't get stared at. Were you looking to meet someone? Or do you just like the atmosphere?"

Guilt grits between his toes as he considers that gay couples come here to get away from people like him - the starers, the lechers, the pervs. "Um. I dunno. It's just nice to get away from everything."

This is cliche enough that Pete doesn't probe any further. The sun is beginning to set and a cool breeze brushes across the sand. They sit down once they near the curve of rocks at the end of the beach and watch the waves crash.

Pete asks about his family, and Patrick tells him about his mom and his brother and sister and his step-family. He intends to just leave out the small matter of his wife and kids. Then Pete asks, "Ever been married?"

Patrick's been lying to himself for decades, now. A little more pretence shouldn't hurt. He looks down at the place where his wedding ring should be and imagines life beyond this holiday. "Yeah," he says. "Divorced, though."

"Me too," Pete sighs. Patrick blinks at him.

"Really? Who's crazy enough to divorce you?"

Pete laughs. "He was an asshole. Best decision I ever made." He looks out at the ocean and Patrick gets the distinct feeling that he doesn't want to talk about it anymore.

"I - it's beautiful here," Patrick tries.

Pete smiles at him. "Have you managed to relax, yet?"

"A little," Patrick says, because he doesn't feel like puking his guts up anymore. Then, Pete puts his hand on Patrick's thigh. He's been doing fine so far; then Pete puts his hand on Patrick's thigh.

Patrick stares at it. It's a lovely hand. It's not touching any skin - it's just sitting on his shorts, thumb stroking over the material. It's large and hairy and tattoed and  _ male.  _ Patrick looks up just in time to register that Pete is leaning in.

It takes less than a second for Patrick's world to be turned inside out. It's a peck on the lips, a touch of their mouths together. It should be nothing.

But the kiss nudges some dislodged piece of Patrick back into place. Pete pulls back and opens his eyes, waiting, questioning. Patrick answers with a tilt of his head towards Pete, chasing the feeling of completion. If the first kiss turns Patrick inside out, the second rearranges him into something new.

Patrick lets his eyes fall shut as Pete pulls at his bottom lip, their noses nudged together and Pete's hand on his chin. For the last few seconds, Patrick manages to kiss back, feeling the scrape of their stubbled jaws and the rough pads of Pete's fingers along his neck. Then it's over, and Patrick's mind begins to catch up.

Pete smiles again, sweet and gentle, then looks back out to the ocean, his face bathed in the light of the setting sun. The breeze catches on the spot of moisture left on Patrick's lips. Patrick watches the clouds move across the sky and the birds patter over the sand and realises, bit by bit, the consequences of what he's just done.

He's cheated. He's become the scumbag his mother warned him about, he's broken his wedding vows and his wife's enduring trust. She will hate him when she finds out what he's done, what he is. But even more unsettling, even more irredeemable, is how much he liked it. This is the worst case scenario. His first kiss with a man, and it eclipses all others.

When he begins to feel as if he can't breathe, he picks Pete's hand from his thigh as if its a spider and gets to his feet, his mouth garbling excuses about phone calls and dinner and early nights. None of them are convincing. He leaves Pete alone on the beach as Patrick does what Patrick does best - he runs away. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again!

Patrick barely makes it to the elevator before he caves and taps the name of the only person he wants to hear right now. She picks up after three rings.

"Hey, honey, what's up?"

Her voice is like a balm. He leans against the elevator wall and tries to slow his breathing.

"Honey? Has something happened?"

"No," Patrick sighs, closing his eyes as the floor rises with him. "No, everything's fine. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"How's the conference?"

"Um," Patrick winces. He's told her so many lies. "It's - it's - I don't know."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Patrick bites his lip. If he told her now, he could make it up to her. He could tell her how wrong he feels, how sorry he is, that this whole thing was a huge mistake and he's on his way home right now. Only, he doesn't feel wrong. In fact, the moment that Pete's lips met his own is quite possibly the only time he's ever felt right in his life. He smacks his head against the wall. It doesn't help.

"Patrick?"

"No," he says finally. "I'm not - it's not - it's not what I expected."

"Oh, sweetie," she replies, "let me take you upstairs, we can talk about it." Patrick hears the pad of her footsteps, the creak of the floorboard he should've fixed. "Okay, no kids about," she says. "I'm all yours."

Patrick arrives at his room and swipes his key card. It flashes red the first three times, letting him in only after ten seconds of panic. He'd rather sleep in the hall than go back to that beach. "Um," he says as he collapses on the bed. "It's not going well."

"In what way?"

"It's - it's just - I don't think I belong here."

"What are you talking about? They're lucky to have you! And I know that for a fact - none of them had any common sense when I worked there and I bet they don't have any now."

Patrick smiles, pressing his face into the cold, clean pillows. All things considered, he wishes she was here. "I miss you," he says quietly.

"It's been three days," she says flatly, "don't give me that crap."

Patrick grins again, and misses her even more.

"Have you been in the sea, yet?"

"I haven't really had -"

"Patrick. Honey. You're on vacation.  _ Please,  _ try to enjoy yourself."

"I'm trying," Patrick says. "I just - it's not what I expected. I don't like it here."

Connie sighs. "You're panicked, aren't you. Is there anyone there that knows about it?"

Telling Pete he's fucking insane wasn't high on Patrick's list, but these things have ways of showing themselves. Blurting garbage and running off down the beach are two of those ways. "No," Patrick says. "But - maybe I'll explain it tomorrow."

"I think you should," she says. "You never know who might be feeling the same way. You know how it is - you always think people judge you way more than they actually do. Everyone's too worried about themselves to pay attention to you."

"I guess so," Patrick says, even though he doesn't actually believe her.

"Give it a couple more days," she says gently, "and if you really hate it, I'll - I don't know, call in with an emergency. We should have a code word. What about,  _ dakota?" _

"Like - from  _ Night at the Museum?" _

"Best movie of the decade, yes."

"Alright," Patrick grins. "I love you."

"Love you too," she says. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," Patrick replies. "Thanks."

"I can stay on if you like."

"No. No, it's okay, just needed to calm down."

"Well, you can call anytime," she says.

They say their goodbyes and Patrick almost -  _ almost -  _ forgets what he was so worried about. But when he closes his eyes, it's not Connie he thinks about - it's Pete, Pete's mouth, Pete's hands. And then it's the lies. The complete lack of work events and the unavoidable fact that he's kissed someone else. He changes into his pyjamas and wishes he could change into another person.

He spends most of the night trying to un-constrict his own throat, but he can't focus on his breathing and mindfulness doesn't work when his own mind is what he's trying to avoid, so he ends up closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. When he finally drops off, it's alongside thoughts he's been ignoring for twenty years - what it might be like to kiss Pete properly, to hold Pete, to fuck Pete.

He wakes up almost in love. He reaches across the sheets as if there might be a hand to grab, a shoulder to rest his head on. He feels a yearning for something he never had, something he has to chase after. It feels a lot like love. Too bad it's for the wrong person.

After breakfast, he spends the morning peeking at the indoor bar and pacing away when Pete does not miraculously appear. There's a strong possibility that Pete is avoiding him. In theory, this would be the greatest stroke of luck Patrick's ever received - he could call it a mistake, a blunder, and tell himself he nipped it in the bud. In reality, not getting to kiss Pete one more time would be Patrick's undoing.

He knows it's wrong. He's fully aware that he is a scumbag, an asshole, chasing after a stupid kink and risking every meaningful relationship in his life. But it's already done. One kiss, two kisses, what's the difference? 

On his fourth trip to the bar, Pete's there. Does he look sad? Tired? Heartbroken? Patrick can't tell. He creeps out from behind a large potted plant and edges towards the bar.

"Pete?" he says softly.

"Holy sh - Patrick," Pete blurts, rattling a tray of wine glasses. "You want a drink?"

Patrick frowns. "Oh - no, no, I just - I came to apologise. For - for what happened."

Pete looks up at him like he's a customer. "Don't worry about it. I'm sorry for misreading things. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks," Patrick says. It's beginning to dawn on Patrick that maybe that kiss  _ didn't  _ throw Pete into a pit of yearning. Maybe he does it all the time. Maybe this isn't destiny or fate or whatever - it's a snog with a random guy.

"You okay?" Pete asks.  "Like - did I overstep?"

"No! No," Patrick says, "I just - I didn't really expect you to - um. It's just that - I get, like, panic attacks, or like, anxiety attacks or whatever sometimes and they come at, like, the worst times, so - so - I'm really sorry." Patrick shuts his mouth before he tells Pete his entire life story.

Pete lines up a mat with the edge of the bar and doesn't look at Patrick. "It's okay. Seriously. Not everything has to be a love connection."

Patrick steps towards him and knits his hands together. "No, but - but -" Patrick tries. He is finding it very difficult not to confess his undying want for Pete. Pete seems to be finding it difficult not to look pissed off. "But - I'd like to, to see you again. Like, not like this. Well,  _ like  _ this, but not just  _ around,  _ like, deliberately. Like yesterday, but without the - the - me."

Pete leans his elbows on the bar and takes a long look at Patrick. Then he breathes a laugh and rolls his eyes. "You're - something. And, for the record, I'm only saying yes to this 'cause I was pretty disappointed when you ran off."

"Yes to - what?" Patrick says, blinking rapidly. He talks such crap sometimes he barely keeps track of himself.

"Seeing you again," Pete snorts. "Yes, I will. Yes, I will let you romance me on my own damn beach, drinking beers that I poured."

"Oh - no, we don't have to -"

Pete laughs again. "Look, I'm kidding. My beach is best, anyway, and so are my beers. Second time lucky, right?"

Patrick mirrors Pete's smile out of sheer surprise. "Yeah, okay, um. Cool. So - so - so -"

"Same time, same spot, bring your trunks," Pete says. "And - like, don't panic."

Patrick understands that this is meant to be harmless, but its effect is to panic him beyond belief. Pete disappears through the door behind the bar and Patrick is left to his stupid  _ thoughts  _ again. This is why he hates relaxing. It gives them way too much breathing space.

He spends the next few hours stress-eating and then stressing about eating, and then eating about stressing. He ends up full and worried. About - everything. There's so many things he could worry about, he's spoilt for choice.

It boils down to his appearance. It's not that he's older - although he doesn't love the hair-loss - it's that he's  _ never  _ been handsome, even before the weight, the age. He's always been the funny-looking dude that never caught an eye, never turned a head. A guy that looks like Pete would never choose a guy that looks like Patrick over any of the specimens in this place.

But the fact is, be it out of charity, pity, or just for a laugh, Pete  _ has  _ chosen Patrick. And Patrick is not about to throw away a second chance. He puts on an ocean-ready version of what he wore the night before and takes a deep breath.

Pete grins when he sees Patrick. When they meet, he hands Patrick a beer and touches Patrick's forearm, and Patrick thinks about it for too long.

But as soon as they sit down on the sand, Patrick promptly shoots himself in the foot. "Um, so, how long have you worked here?"

Pete pauses. Patrick thought it was a reasonable question, but Pete's frowning. "I mean, I bought the place about ten years ago," he says, taking a sip of his beer.

A lot of what Pete's said over the last few days suddenly makes sense. "Oh - you weren't kidding when you said it was _your_ beach?"

Pete shakes his head. "Nope. I mean, technically the beach is public property but the hotel is all mine."

"Oh - my god, I'm so sorry for assuming -"

Pete's face splits into that grin again. "Don't worry about it. I'm around a lot, it's an easy mistake to make."

"So, do you live here?"

"Yep. Got everything I need right here." He pats the sand.

"So - if this doesn't go well, you could kick me out?"

Pete laughs. "Yep. Don't test me."

Patrick sits up and straightens his t-shirt. "Okay. I'm on my best behaviour, I swear."

Pete is easy to talk to. He's funny and interesting, and for some bizarre reason, he seems to find  _ Patrick  _ funny and interesting. Patrick begins, slowly, to relax, steeling himself for what he hopes might happen. If Pete puts his hand on Patrick's thigh again, Patrick will savour the heat of his fingers. If he kisses Patrick, Patrick will kiss back like he means it.

All it takes is Pete's fingers to brush against Patrick's in the sand, and suddenly Pete's looking at him like  _ that,  _ like Patrick's something he wants. Pete's eyes drop to Patrick's knees and rise like the tide over his body, pausing at places that make Patrick feel frothy on the inside.

"If I kiss you, do you promise not to run away again?" Pete asks.

If Patrick was a brave man, he'd answer Pete's question by taking Pete's face in his hands and kissing him deeply; but alas, Patrick is not. All he can think to do is curl his fingers over Pete's in the sand and nod quickly. "I promise."

This time, Patrick pays attention. He watches Pete lean in, feels Pete's breath over his face, then lets his eyes fall shut and savours the brush of Pete's mouth against his own. Pete's hand seems at home on Patrick's thigh - it's higher than last time, Pete's fingers digging in to the sensitive skin underneath. Patrick stops paying attention to that when he feels his dick twitch in his trunks.

Pete places sweet, soft kisses to his top and bottom lip in turn - then, he opens his mouth and suddenly his tongue is there, touching the tip of Patrick's, probing inside. This sensation is odd even with a woman - with a man, it's an alien experience, Pete's soothing touches at odds with the scrape of his stubble.

With each pulse of Pete's lips, Patrick gains confidence, beginning to move with Pete. He wants to feel Pete's skin under his fingers, but he doesn't want to poke Pete in the eye by accident so instead he starts at Pete's neck and then slides his fingertips into Pete's hair.

They kiss slowly for a little longer and then Pete pulls away, his mouth slick and smiling and his hand squeezing Patrick's thigh. "Okay?" he asks.

"Fuck," is the only word that really represents how Patrick feels, and Pete laughs, his hand sliding from Patrick's leg to grasp at his hand.

"You wanna go for a swim?" Pete asks, gazing out at the darkening ocean.

Patrick feels as if he's just woken up, blinking dazedly at Pete and trying to process the question. "Um - well, I haven't actually, uh -"

"You haven't been in the sea yet," Pete finishes, shaking his head. "You astound me. You  _ have  _ to come for a swim, now." He stands up and Patrick's showered in sand.

For a moment, Patrick is caught up, ready to stumble after this beautiful man and continue this chick-flick romance. Then, Pete takes his shirt off and throws it in a pile with his phone and shoes. Patrick remembers that swimming requires an element of nudity. He freezes.

"Come on," Pete says, beginning to scurry towards the sea. Patrick wants nothing more than to scurry after him, but when he looks down at himself, his pasty belly and his hairy chest, the nerves come flooding back. He decides to leave his t-shirt on. He can say he's sunburnt, or something.

The sea is cold at the surface but warm once he's up to his calves, the water lapping at his trunks. Pete's already in up to his slim, toned waist, tattoos spiralling over his chest. Patrick's mouth waters. He wades after Pete, not stopping even when his shirt gets wet and sticks to his belly.

Once he's in up to his neck, the confidence begins to wear off and waves slop over his face. He takes another step and can't reach the sea floor, even with his toes. Pete bobs a few metres away, beckoning him closer.

Patrick tries. He kicks his legs and spreads his arms and  _ tries  _ to swim against the waves, but he ends up with salt water in his mouth and his eyes and stinging in his throat. "Wait," he gargles, rubbing his eyes frantically. He can't see a thing - Pete could be halfway across the pacific for all he knows.

Then, he feels arms wrap around him, pulling him until his feet touch sand and he can splutter upright. "I got you," Pete says, his hands firm on Patrick's waist. When Patrick blearily opens his eyes, Pete's close enough to kiss, water dripping over his mouth and his gaze locked with Patrick's. Patrick feels utterly and completely wooed.

He doesn't think he's ever seen a man's bare chest this close before. Pete's collarbones are decorated with a tattooed necklace of thorns, and Patrick can't help but touch them, his fingers leaving wet trails over Pete's skin. Pete's hands squeeze at Patrick's hips - Patrick's extra fluff hasn't made Pete vomit yet. So far, so good.

There's not many people around. They're far enough away from the beach that all they can hear is the hush of the waves. Patrick swallows thickly and tries to think of something other than the throbbing of his own dick.

But this time, Pete kisses him with purpose. He tastes of salt, his fingers dripping as they skim over Patrick's cheek. One of his hands is on Patrick's waist. It trails lower. It slides to grasp Patrick's ass, and Patrick gasps into Pete's mouth.

"This okay?" Pete mumbles, pulling back to look at Patrick with dusky eyes.

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, anchoring his feet in the sand as Pete begins to explore him underwater. He makes a strange squeaking sound when Pete's fingers brush over his dick, but Pete doesn't stop - he cups Patrick through his trunks, applying slow pressure until Patrick's gasping into Pete's neck, his dick perking up under Pete's fingers. Pete begins to stroke him, coaxing him to hardness, his other hand holding tight to Patrick's waist.

Patrick's sex life has never been spectacular. He never really understood the hype - when his friends would fall over themselves just for the chance of sex, Patrick was quite happy to wait. When it finally happened, it wasn't like it is in the movies - it was just  _ fine.  _ Nice. Take it or leave it.

Recently it's taken a turn for the worse. He'd always kept Connie satisfied - he's good with his mouth - but it didn't make either of them feel good when he stopped being able to get hard. She's been good about it, telling him he's at the right age for a sexual slump, but he knows it gets to her. He wants to be attracted to her. He  _ should  _ be attracted to her. His cock just doesn't always get the memo.

Right now, though, as Pete pushes down his trunks, he's sporting an erection that could guide ships back to shore. He feels a burning sense of want, a drive that compels him to fuck his hips into Pete's hand, to place his own against Pete's crotch and make him feel just as good.

Pete clearly knows his way around a penis. He tucks Patrick's waistband behind Patrick's balls and cups them in his hand, squeezing in ways that make Patrick scrabble at Pete's bare chest. "You like that?" Pete purrs. "You want me to touch your cock, too?"

Patrick hates dirty talk. At best it makes him laugh, at worst it puts him off entirely. Pete's dirty talk is objectively no better than the time Connie told him she was gonna  _ love him all over _ on their honeymoon - but for some reason, his cock has no objections. It's taken so much blood from his brain by this point that he can barely concentrate. "Yes," is all he can moan.

Finally, Pete wraps his hand around Patrick's aching cock, stroking smoothly. "You feel big," he murmurs into Patrick's ear. Patrick can do nothing but remain draped over Pete's shoulders, his hips a law unto themselves as they thrust urgently into Pete's hand.

He hasn't come so fast since he was fourteen. He can barely help himself, his orgasm hitting him like sheet lightning and his whole body tingling with it. He feels the heat of it in the water with him, the stroke of Pete's hand, oversensitive and all-encompassing.

"Oh," Pete says.

"Sorry," Patrick pants, except for once, he's not. He's sated, blissed out, floating. "That was amazing."

"You never got off in the sea before?"

"No," Patrick says, "No I haven't."

Pete's dick is still throbbing against Patrick's thigh. Patrick snakes a hand into Pete’s shorts and wraps his hand around it. He’s never touched another man’s penis before. Pete’s feels thicker than his own, the head more pronounced as he runs his thumb over it. Once Patrick establishes a rhythm, he tries to multitask, dropping his lips to Pete's neck and kissing, biting until Pete begins to groan.

"Fuck," Pete sighs, and Patrick feels a spark of pride, a need to make Pete feel as good as Pete made him feel. Sex has never been so urgent - he wants to see Pete come apart in his hands. When Pete finally breaks, he's pressed tight to Patrick's body, his mouth slack at Patrick's neck.

Patrick bites back a smile as they untangle themselves, waiting for Pete to say something. Pete just lets out an awkward laugh and adjusts his trunks. It's a little like what Patrick imagines teenagers feel like after clumsy kisses in the corner of the school dance.

"Hey," Pete says all of a sudden, touching a hand to Patrick's hip. "Look, I like you, but -"

Patrick's heart drops into the sand. This is how it ends.  _ I like you, but you're not my type. I like you, but I don't think we should do this again. I like you, but not really. _

"- but I don't wanna put any pressure on you," Pete finishes. "I just - my place is like, right over there, if you wanna go somewhere more private, maybe..."

Patrick's cock takes a renewed interest in proceedings. Patrick's brain has solidified enough to remind him that, oh yeah, gay men like sex. Lots of sex. Lots of  _ butt  _ sex. There are so many aspects of this that Patrick isn't even close to ready for. On the other hand, he's just experienced the best orgasm he's had in years, and he should make the most of a fully-functioning cock. He's relieved it still works. For once in his small, shy life, Patrick throws caution to the wind.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be next Saturday - it might be next Friday or next Sunday, because next Saturday is the anniversary of my birth, yay! Hope you enjoyed this, come talk to me on Tumblr @the-chaotic-panda, I usually don't bite.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, happy birthday to our overlord Mr. Pete Wentz and happy tomorrow birthday to me, orchestrator of this burning trash can. Enjoy!

Patrick has no idea how he ended up in Pete's bedroom. He knows how he physically  _ got  _ here - they waded out of the sea, hand in hand, scooped their belongings off the beach and skipped along to the section of the hotel that Pete calls home - but how the twisting path of life decided this was the course for him, he's in the dark. Totally blindsided. Clueless.

He's quickly learning that Pete is very tactile. He keeps a hand at the small of Patrick's back as he shows him around the house, leaving wet footprints over the carpet. He seems very keen on getting to the bedroom. Patrick can't say this development is disappointing. But like every new experience, it's also terrifying.

Pete's bedroom is simple, tidy. There's a shelf full of books and a bowl full of shells on the far wall. The whole place gives off a classy bachelor vibe - Patrick wonders if all gay men are good at interior design. Patrick can barely hang a picture. He stands in the doorway and his clothes drip seawater onto the floor.

"Do I get to see under here yet?" Pete asks, snaking a thumb under the hem of Patrick's t-shirt. Pete hasn't bothered to put his shirt back on - his chest is toned, firm, glistening in the yellowish lamp light. Patrick can't compete with it. He pulls the hem of his shirt out of Pete's grasp.

"Nah," Patrick brushes off, "I don't think anyone wants to see that."

The look on Pete's face makes Patrick wish he hadn't said it. "I do," Pete says, leaning close and pressing a kiss to Patrick's jaw. He slides a hand under Patrick's shirt and traces the curve of fat around his hips. "I wanna see you."

Patrick gnaws at his lip as Pete kisses along his jaw. His t-shirt is wet and gritty with sand and salt. Plus, if Pete runs away, Patrick would probably be saved a good deal of emotional turmoil. He shuffles backwards and yanks his shirt over his head with a wet  _ schlop _ . It immediately begins to drip on Pete's nice clean carpet. "Um, where should I -"

"Anywhere," Pete purrs, running his hands across the expanse of Patrick's belly and pausing at the swell of Patrick's nipples. "Look at you."

Patrick looks. He sees a patchy, pudgy, hairy man. It's not even nice, manly hair, either - it's reddish and sticking up in weird directions where the water has gathered it together. Then Pete presses his chest against Patrick's and kisses him hard and Patrick forgets whatever he was worrying about and drops his shirt on the floor.

The key to this, he figures, is to act like he knows what he's doing. Pete seemed pleased with the hand-job, and Patrick thinks Pete likes the way Patrick's kissing him like there's no tomorrow, so as long as he keeps going like this, there'll be no need to tell Pete that he's never done any of this before. He supposes he'll just grin and bear it if Pete wants to fuck him in the ass. False confidence - that's how he'll get through this.

"I want to blow you," he hears himself say. It's quite possible he's never said those words in that order before. He's definitely never meant them. Just thinking about Pete's cock makes his own twitch - arousal has never been this simple.

"Can't say no to that," Pete grins, placing a kiss to Patrick's mouth and sitting on the bed. "Where d'you want me?"

"There's fine," Patrick says, even though he'd probably rather Pete was laid on his back than looking down at him, scrutinising his technique. He scrapes his hair out of his face and gets to his knees - Pete's definitely going to see his bald spot. He'll be staring right at it. This blowjob needs to be good enough to override the bald spot. And the rest of his appearance. And his personality. So, no pressure.

He tries to think of what he's seen Connie do, what felt good, what didn't, and then abruptly stops when he sees the edge of the shitstorm that will hit when he has to confront his actions. Porn is a better point of reference - he's seen people lead up to blowjobs by mouthing over the dude's pants, so he shuffles between Pete's legs and leans in. Lying down would have been better. Patrick feels dreadfully small.

The head of Pete's cock is visible through the moistened fabric of his trunks - it's probably a good place to start, so Patrick puts his mouth over it and gives it an experimental suck. Pete groans. This is a good sign. Patrick keeps going, moving along the length of Pete's cock until he reaches the crotch of his trunks. He supposes he better pull them down. Pull them down and see Pete's honest-to-goodness genitals. And put his bare mouth on them. Hm.

He puts a hand over his own cock and it makes things easier - the more turned on he is, the less he can think. He tugs at Pete's waistband and Pete's cock springs out at him, semi-hard and bigger than anticipated. He stares at it. He's already touched it underwater, but in the open it seems so much more solid, poking out at him like an accusation.

His hand seems like a good stepping-stone - it's easier to wrap his hand around Pete's length like he would his own, stroking him slow and steady and listening to him moan. Maybe he could just stay down here, stroking Pete to orgasm, and Pete wouldn't notice he didn't use his mouth. Somehow sucking Pete's cock seems another level of gay than just jacking him off.

But the strange thing is, he  _ wants  _ to. He wants to feel the weight of Pete in his mouth, to taste the smudge of precome bubbling at the head of his cock, to make Pete cry out with pleasure. He leans in, opens his mouth and closes his lips over the crown of Pete's cock.

It's salty. It feels bigger in his mouth than it did in his hand. He sinks down an inch or so and jerks his hand at the same time - this seems to be a good technique, so he does it a few more times, breathing steadily through his nose as he begins to suck.

"God, Patrick," Pete says, and Patrick hums at the sound of his own name. He shapes his cock through his trunks and tries to focus on bobbing his head. Keeping a steady rhythm is harder than he anticipated - his hand isn't really wet enough and he keeps getting distracted by other things, like Pete's knees edging closer to his shoulders and Pete's hand on his neck. Pete's also clean-shaven - Patrick figured this was something that only really happens in porn, but maybe all gay men do it. Maybe when Pete sees the overgrown mess of hair in Patrick's pants he'll  _ know.  _ The straight patrol will come for him, and not in the fun way.

Pete's hand has made its way to the back of Patrick's head. It's not pushing, not even guiding, just resting there. Patrick's not sure how much he likes it. It draws even more attention to his lack of hair. He also thinks he'd rather Pete was naked - he feels cheap, on his knees in an almost-hotel room with a nearly-stranger's cock in his mouth. But maybe this is what gay guys do. Maybe Pete will come over his face, smack him on the ass and pack him out the door when this is over. He can't be gay - he's not cut out for meaningless sex.

He redoubles his sucking efforts and tries not to overanalyse. It's hot, there's no doubt about it - he's getting close himself, just from the noises Pete's making. If he's not mistaken, it's going something close to  _ well.  _ He's a natural. He aggressively doesn't think about whether this is a good thing. 

"Fuck, I'm close," Pete says, stroking the back of his neck. It feels good, encouraging. Patrick sucks harder, taking Pete as far as he can without choking. He's still a little nauseous from swimming in the sea - Patrick doesn't know much about the gay community, but he's pretty sure throwing up over Pete's cock wouldn't be a turn-on.

It's an odd sensation, when Pete begins to come. Patrick's familiar with the properties of come, but he's never had it projected down his throat. He pulls off a bit and it coats his tongue, thick and bitter. Some of it dribbles from the side of his mouth and he lets it, just for show. It's hot when they do it in porn, even if it does bring back that crawling sensation in his gut.

"Fucking hell, Patrick," Pete says, falling back onto the bed and covering his face. "That was awesome."

Patrick tries to smile and remembers he has a mouthful of come. He supposes he should swallow it, really - that's the polite thing to do. Unfortunately, he manages to breathe in the same moment he swallows, and immediately chokes, his lungs spasming and his throat raw.

"You okay?" Pete says, but Patrick's already halfway to the bathroom, looking for somewhere to spit. He collapses over the sink and coughs until he can breathe again, until his eyes water and saliva dribbles down his chin. "Did it go down the wrong way?"

Patrick rests his head in his hands and breathes deeply. When he looks up, he's confronted with himself, red-faced and glassy-eyed. He feels the opposite of sexy. He washes come off his hand and wipes his mouth on some toilet roll. His erection dies a weak, whimpering death.

He can't do this. He's not gay, he can't just jump into bed with whatever stranger he chooses, he needs time, space, he needs not to be  _ married,  _ for Christ's sake. But the line has been crossed. He's not sure he counts if sucking someone off as sex, but he's pretty sure his wife will. It's not a mistake anymore, it's a series of betrayals. It gets harder to breathe again, but this time, he's not choking on anything but his own guilt. 

"Is everything alright?" Pete calls from the bedroom. He probably wants to fuck Patrick now. He'll expect Patrick to know all the moves, to be able to take a full-sized penis in his ass with no complaints. It'll hurt and he'll cry and maybe even bleed. When he limps away from it all, he'll feel dirty and used and he'll know that all this stupidity wasn't worth losing his family over. Pete will leave, Connie will leave, his kids will leave, and Patrick will be alone. Patrick stares into the mirror and hates every inch of what he sees.

"Dude - " Pete's suddenly  _ there,  _ beside him, trying to touch him again and Patrick stumbles away. He wants a shirt, dammit, he's too raw to be naked. But walking is difficult when he can't breathe very well so he ends up clinging to the doorframe and hoping Pete goes away.

"Um, I'm not really sure what you need right now," Pete's saying. "Can I get you some water? Or - or, like, uh...a chair? Could - can I help you to the bed?"

"I'm fine," Patrick croaks, despite it all, "I'm sorry, I just - do you have a dry shirt?"

Pete looks at him like - well, like he's a half-naked stranger who is now suffocating after giving him a blowjob. "Sure," he says, scurrying to his wardrobe, "um, The Who or Kanye?"

"The Who," Patrick says without hesitation.

"It might be a little small," Pete says. Patrick wonders if he really needed to point this out. "'Cause, your shoulders are broad as fuck."

Patrick decides to believe Pete means it and pulls the shirt over his head. It's clean and dry and Patrick feels instantly more human.

"I got sweatpants too, if you want," Pete says. "I might change, actually. I can put the damp stuff in the dryer. And I'll turn the temperature up, it's kind of cold in here," Pete babbles, rooting through a drawer until he finds a pair of stretchy pants.

"Thanks," Patrick says weakly, and staggers back into the bathroom to take off his trunks. It doesn't matter that they've fucked already - Patrick doesn't want to show Pete any more of himself. 

Once Pete leaves the room with an armful of wet clothes, it gets easier. Patrick breathes deeply, perching on the edge of the bed and fisting his hands in the fabric of the sweatpants. They do nothing for his belly and they're a little tight around his calves, but they're armour enough for the next few minutes.

"Hey - um, I was gonna order some pizza?" Pete says, hovering in the doorway. "Do you - like pizza?"

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I like pizza."

"Cool. Is cheese okay?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Pete shoots him finger guns and wanders off again. Patrick's succeeded in making Pete as awkward as he is. Patrick's like a disease. He can't even do meaningless sex right.

When Pete creeps back into the room, he looks like he's attempting to catch a particularly cowardly mouse. He sits on the opposite side of the bed and sets a glass of water on the bedside table. "Um. Do you wanna talk about it?"

Ideally, Patrick needs a priest, but he'll settle for the guy whose dick he just sucked. "Uh. Look, okay," Patrick starts, trying to think of how to phrase it. He's so close to doing the right thing. But he wants Pete. He wants Pete more than maybe anything in his life. Perhaps he could just postpone the hurt for one more evening. He's not lying, he's just - omitting. Besides, Pete might kick him out anyway when he realises Patrick has the sexual experience of an amoeba. One thing at a time. He takes a breath and looks Pete in the eye.

"I don't want to do anal," he says.

Pete blinks at him. "Um. Okay, I wasn't gonna -"

"Because I've never been with a guy before. Like, sexually. At all. So, yeah."

"Oh," Pete says. "Okay. Shit."

"I know you wanted something more, but I -” Pete’s looking at him like he’s an alien. This was the shittiest idea ever. Patrick accepts defeat. “I should leave. I'm sorry," Patrick stammers, searching for wherever his shoes might've gone.

"What?" Pete says, "Hey, no, no, sit down." He pats the bed. "Seriously. Just sit down, let's talk."

Patrick lets himself sink back to the bed and folds his hands in his lap.

"I wasn't expecting sex from you," Pete says, "honestly. Like, yeah, we were having a good time, I thought I'd try my luck, but it's basically the first date, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd said no."

"I just can't - I'm not - I'm not ready for that, but that's what you want, so  _ I'm  _ not what you want -"

"Whoa," Pete says, spreading his hands in front of him. "Quit telling me what I want." Patrick cowers but Pete shuffles closer to him and touches Patrick's knee. "Yeah, I'd like to have sex," Pete starts, "but only if it's something you want, too. I wasn't gonna just, like, mount you all of a sudden."

Patrick laughs, revelling in the idea that even after seeing Patrick’s play-doh body, Pete wants to have sex with him. Pete's hand moves to his thigh and strokes gently. Patrick looks up at Pete's kind eyes and falls a little more in love.

"I like you," Pete says. "And I like spending time with you. Sex or no sex, you've at least gotta stay 'til the pizza comes."

Patrick smiles and leans to press a kiss to Pete’s mouth without thinking. It’s so easy to be intimate, to fall towards Pete like he’s been doing it his whole life. Pete kisses back softly, his hand slipping to Patrick’s waist as if it belongs there. Then, abruptly, he pulls away.

"Wait. So - that was your first blowjob?"

Patrick nods.

Pete shakes his head. "What the fuck, man. That was awesome. I never would've guessed, like, at all."

Patrick shrugs. "The sperm choking gave me away."

"Happens to the best of us," Pete smiles. "But - we can cool it for a while. Get to know each other.  Come on," he says, pulling away from Patrick and sliding off the bed. "Let's get us some drinks."

Half an hour later, Patrick's propped on the couch of a hot hotel owner with a beer in front of him and a slice of pizza in his hand. He'd be pretty sure he was dreaming if it weren't for the fact that he just dripped grease on Pete's shirt. Pete tells him not to worry about it. Pete doesn’t seem worried about a lot. What a way to live. 

"So, um," Pete starts, "I'm guessing you were married to a woman?"

Patrick chokes on his pizza. He recovers from it quicker than he did the semen.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to, like, pry. I just - I dunno, wondered."

Patrick wipes saliva from his mouth and swallows with some effort. "No, no, it's fine." It was the past tense that got him more than anything. "I was, yeah. Before I - uh,"  _ before I took a trip to a gay hotel on a whim and cheated on her with the first guy who looked at me twice, " _ y'know."

Pete nods sagely like he's in on the joke. "Yeah. Must've been difficult. You got kids?"

"Sorta," Patrick says. Pete stops chewing his pizza. "Two boys. They're hers, from her other marriage. But - I love them to bits, anyway."

Pete's gaze softens. "So, you're still around them a lot?"

Patrick hasn't given this much thought, mostly because it makes him feel nauseous. Even if Connie doesn't kill him. If she doesn't burn his belongings and rip the brakes out of his car, she could stop him seeing the boys. They're her kids, she's well within her rights. In fact, this scenario is pretty likely. He bites his lip - he doesn't know what he'll do without the boys.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Yeah, they're really great." It's becoming so easy to lie. He swallows the curl of self-hatred that flares in his throat. "Um, do you have kids?"

Pete laughs. "Fuck, no. I don't think I'm dad material, really."

Patrick shrugs. "Nobody does, I guess. Like, I'm not really a proper parent but I still kind of can't believe that there's these two little people that need me." He should call them. Speak to them, while he still can. 

"Hey, you're totally a proper parent," Pete says. "This place is chock full of misfit families. Sometimes a family is two kids, a mom and a gay stepdad," he laughs.

The gay stepdad. That's what Patrick will be. That's how they'll refer to him, if he's at all involved in their lives after this. Gay. The word makes him feel sick. He puts down his pizza crust. He changes the subject. 

Unlike his music taste, Pete's movie taste is acceptable. He puts Back to the Future on and slowly closes the gap between them, eventually putting his feet over Patrick's lap. By the time the credits roll, Patrick's sandwiched between the couch and Pete, Pete's arm slung over his shoulder. Every so often they'll smile at each other and Patrick finally understands the butterflies in the stomach thing. He’s never felt so comfortable on a stranger’s couch before. 

"I better get going," Patrick says once they're sitting in the dark, too lazy to fetch the remote. 

"Oh," Pete says, "I sorta hoped I had you for the night."

"Well, I - um," Patrick stumbles, caught on the idea of sharing Pete's bed. "I'm - I don't wanna intrude..."

"If I absolutely promise I won't get my dick out, does that sway you?" Pete says, and Patrick can see him grinning in the half-light. He’s lovely - even though Patrick’s terrified of going further, he can see himself overcoming it. 

"So we'd just, like - cuddle?" Patrick asks. He didn't know gay guys liked to cuddle.

"Yeah," Pete says. "No fluids involved."

Patrick makes a face. He can't quite believe he sucked a cock tonight. And that cock was attached to a man.  _ That  _ man, specifically, the one who looks like he dropped right out of a Vogue shoot. He was this close to letting Pete fuck his virgin ass - if that’s not love, Patrick doesn’t know what is. "Deal," Patrick says. "And - like, thanks."

"What for?"

"The pizza," Patrick says. "And - for being nice."

Pete slides his arms around Patrick and hums into his shoulder. "No problem. Thanks for waiting 'til after I came to freak out."

Patrick feels Pete laugh behind him and leans into it. They fit, somehow.

He treats himself to a few more kisses as they fall into bed together. He can’t believe he ever ran away from this. Pete's bed is cosy - he keeps the AC low and the blankets heavy like he's prepping for a global deep-freeze, but Patrick likes it, the way Pete wriggles around to generate heat and curls close to Patrick. A minute or so after he turns the light off, he feels Pete's hand creep over his hip and Pete's lips push a kiss to his collarbone. Patrick leans into it, his back to Pete’s chest and their knees slotted together. They fit, somehow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be next Saturday as normal, unless I consume so much food tomorrow that I fall into a coma.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, this is mostly porn.

Patrick wakes up in bed with a man.

At first, he panics. There's a man here, a real life man, with hairy arms and stubble and a penis, probably. Then he realises that his panic is mostly superficial - when he looks at Pete, really looks, what he feels is a profound sense of comfort. The only place they're touching is where Pete's hand rests on Patrick's hip, his fingers bleeding warmth through Patrick's - Pete's - t-shirt. Everything smells of Pete. Patrick breathes him in.

There's a strangeness to it all. It's not just the smell, or the foreignness, or even the crust of sea-water over his skin - it's just a slow, warm, creeping strangeness that Patrick's scared to give in to. There's daylight filtering through the curtains and falling across Pete's face. Patrick could watch it dance for hours.

Patrick's almost asleep again when Pete stirs beside him. When he opens his eyes, he's met with Pete's gaze, half-lidded and lazy. His hand drifts over Patrick's chest and leaves butterflies in its wake - when Pete shifts closer to him, rests his head against Patrick's shoulder, it doesn't feel like an affair. It's not wrong, or dirty, or taboo - it's more like love than anything Patrick's experienced. 

"Morning," Pete mumbles, his lips moving against Patrick's chest. His hair is brittle with dried saltwater and tickles Patrick's arm. "How long have you been staring at me?"

"Not long," Patrick smiles. "Did you sleep okay?"

Pete nods, his eyes falling shut. "Yeah. You're comfy."

Patrick almost reads into it, almost sucks in his gut and bullies himself into another pointless diet, but then Pete's hand rests on his belly and he stares at it like it's a butterfly. Patrick feels consecrated; sanctified. He's also not sure he can ever move again.

"Um - should I make some coffee?" Patrick asks, because he should  _ do  _ something, right? Pete's head is on his chest - Patrick has been deemed the Man. He's never had a one night stand before but he's pretty sure the guy is supposed to make breakfast.

Pete makes a growling sound that ripples through both of them. "Don't like it."

"Tea?" Patrick offers.

"What time is it," Pete groans.

Patrick checks his phone. There's a text from Connie. He turns the screen off quickly. "Uh - eight-oh-four."

"You got anywhere to be?" Pete asks, shifting to look at him. Patrick shakes his head. "Then we've got all morning."

"So - you don't want any breakfast?"

Pete frowns at him. "Why are you so desperate to serve me food? Are you trying to poison me?" He slumps back to Patrick's chest and sighs. "You're just like my ex husband."

"Oh - no, I just thought - like, we slept together, so, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to - to -"

"Whoa," Pete says, patting Patrick's gut. "Shh. It's, like, eight a.m., dude. Chill."

"Sorry," Patrick says. "I've just never really, like, had a one night stand."

Pete winces audibly. "Ouch. It's all sex sex sex with you, isn't it."

Once he catches up with the sarcasm, Patrick laughs. "No, you're not a one night stand. You're a - um..."

Pete looks at him whilst he thinks. It doesn't help.

"Uh...A friend with...blowjobs?"

Pete snorts. "I think I prefer one night stand. I'm hoping it'll be  _ more  _ than one night, though," he smiles, his hand sliding to Patrick's collarbone.

Patrick grins and kisses back when Pete pushes their mouths together. Pete twists in his arms until he hovers over Patrick, cupping his face as he pecks at Patrick's lips.

"Although," Pete purrs, "I don't believe I returned the favour, last night. Would you like to cash in?"

Patrick's pretty sure he knows what Pete's getting at. His cock has definitely worked it out. Pete's hand traces down the centre of his chest until it rests just below his belly button.

"No pressure," Pete says softly, pushing another kiss to Patrick's mouth. "Just - if you like. Making out is fine too."

It'd be patronising if it wasn't said with such kindness - Pete has this way of making Patrick feel totally at ease, as if he won't be judged, won't be mocked. "I - I think I'd like that," he says, and Pete grins, wide and glittering.

"So do I," Pete replies, his hand resting over Patrick's cock where it's pushing at his pants. Pete shuffles down the bed until his mouth is level with it and Patrick aches with anticipation.

Pete presses a few kisses to the underside of Patrick's belly as he works his way towards Patrick's crotch, his fingers slipping below the waistband of the soft sweatpants, easing them over Patrick's hips. He's embarrassingly hard when his cock springs free. "Fuck," Pete whispers, his breath tickling Patrick's skin. "I knew it. You're gifted, man."

Patrick's laugh quickly melts into a moan as Pete licks a molten stripe over his cock. He does it a few more times, presumably to watch Patrick squirm, and then takes the head between his lips, sucking until Patrick cries out. When he bobs his head, Patrick's hips buck automatically, chasing the heat of Pete's mouth.

It's not that Connie never did this. She was pretty good at it, too - some of their best shared sexual experiences were just exchanging oral and calling it a night. Patrick thought it was so good because all he had to do was lie there. Now, he wonders if it was just easier to imagine a man.

His imaginings didn't do Pete justice. Usually, Patrick would close his eyes, focus on the sensation, but right now, all he can do is stare at the way Pete's big, elegant hands wrap around his cock, how his stubble brushes his inner thighs. It's surreal. Patrick's had dreams like this, woken up hard, sweating, had to run to the bathroom and turn on the taps to cover the sounds of his breathing. Right now, though, he's gasping with each swirl of Pete's clever tongue, and not even the voice in his head is telling him to stop.

Pete's making noises, too. Tiny little hums that make Patrick's cock swell, his balls tighten. He's in no rush, his hands drifting over Patrick's skin, sucking like he's enjoying it. Patrick tries to remember if he enjoyed sucking cock that much - then Pete swallows him down until his nose is buried in Patrick's pubic hair and thinking just isn't realistic anymore. He knows his mouth is hanging open, knows he's sweating like a pig and groaning like one too, but it doesn't seem to matter when he's pushing up into Pete's mouth, his heart pounding solely in his hips. He's not religious, but when he comes, he sees God. God doesn't approve.

"Jesus Christ," Patrick says when he opens his eyes. Pete smirks at him, licking at Patrick's cock like it's a lollipop. His own cock is in his hand, red and leaking as he strokes languidly at it. His hand speeds as he begins to mouth at Patrick's inner thigh, and Patrick falls back to the pillows, dizzy with oversensitivity. Pete comes quickly, his hips jerking against Patrick's calf, and it makes Patrick feel slightly better about lasting under a minute. Slightly.

"Sorry," he says instinctively as Pete stretches out beside him. "Apparently I have no stamina with you."

"First time with a man? I should hope not," Pete replies, haughty. Patrick smiles, loves Pete for not making a fuss of it. He's not actually sure Pete's capable of fussing over anything. With this in mind, Patrick leans over and kisses him, his hand slipping to Pete's waist, careful and confident. When he pulls back, Pete's grinning, his fingers stroking through the beginnings of Patrick's beard, and Patrick feels so  _ wanted.  _ If he were to say  _ I love you  _ in this moment, he'd mean it.

Instead he says, "How about some breakfast?" 

They shower separately, to Patrick's relief, and wander back to the foyer with wet hair and warm skin. Pete's wearing a Hawaiian shirt and pink sandals and he greets everyone he sees; next to him, in his white t-shirt and blue trunks, Patrick feels plain.

A man with impressive shoulders touches Pete's arm as he goes past. Another with bright blond hair and a lip ring gives Pete a look filled with more lust than a cinema full of middle-aged women watching  _ Magic Mike.  _ When they sit down, Pete begins to chat with a man who is the spitting image of Idris Elba. 

Patrick stares at the table and feels as empty as his plate. He can't compete with these men. He isn't even in the same league. They're Olympic standard and he's backyard entertainment. He stares at the buffet and blacklists anything that involves syrup.

Then, Pete touches his arm. "You wanna go up together?"

Pete becomes doubly alluring once he's holding a pile of glistening pancakes and an omelette oozing with cheese. Patrick drops another slice of pineapple onto his plate and sighs. It's not even nine-thirty and he's already yearning. 

The melon is fine. It's nice, even, nice and juicy and fresh. It's also guiltless, and won't make Patrick's trunks feel tight. He's enjoying it, he tells himself vehemently.

"You want some of this?" Pete says through a mouthful of food. He's gathered a layered triangle of pancakes on his fork and drizzles fresh syrup over them. It mixes with the butter and creates a slow, marbled fall of fat and sugar. Patrick stares at it. "It's really good."

"Nah, that's yours," Patrick says. "I'm fine with this." He gestures to his sparse plate of fruit. Pete raises an eyebrow.

"Just a taste," Pete teases, "go on."

Patrick's too weak to resist. He lets Pete feed him, opening his mouth and feeling syrup drip over his tongue. It eclipses all memory of fruit. Pete grins as he watches Patrick chew.

"Good, right?"

Patrick nods. Suddenly, he doesn't want any more melon. He puts his fork down and savours the sweetness. Whatever diet he had planned melts with the butter - being thin just isn't worth the misery.

"So, uh," Patrick says as they wander back to the foyer, full of breakfast and, in Patrick's case, envy. "Do you know, like, everyone here?"

Pete shrugs, leaning against the wall as they wait for the elevator. "A few. We get a lot of regulars. Families, y'know. There aren't a lot of spaces like this - it's either 'gay friendly', or, like, a brothel. There's not much in between."

"It's nice," Patrick says, thinking of all the hot guys with whom Pete seems to be on a first-name basis. "Are you working today?"

Pete makes an uncertain noise. "Got some paperwork to do. But - we could go to dinner this evening, if you like?"

Patrick smiles at the elevator buttons as he taps his floor number. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be awesome."

"There's a mediterranean place in town," Pete suggests. If Patrick's not mistaken, there's a shade of earnest in his voice that Patrick hasn't heard before. It makes his fruit-filled stomach squeeze. "Could be kinda romantic."

"I like romance," Patrick says in lieu of anything intelligent. He reminds himself once again that Pete didn't ask any of those hot muscled guys on a date - he asked  _ Patrick. " _ Should I meet you in the lobby?"

Pete says something about times and schedules and routes, but the logistics are a backdrop, an environment for their infant love-language to grow. Patrick's starting to recognise Pete's nervous ticks, differentiate his customer service smile from his goofy grin, his absent giggle from his full-bellied laugh. When they reach Patrick's room, he sees the drift of Pete's hands towards his waist, the tilt of his head when he's looking for a kiss. He finds it, sweet and gentle and promising. By the time Patrick falls into his room, his chest spins with it. There's a chance he's overthinking this.

Newly alone, he begins to comb through the night's happenings - the blowjob, the panic, the pizza. The fact that he was possibly the most aroused he's ever been when Pete's mouth was wrapped around his cock. Maybe Pete's just good at oral. Practice makes perfect, regardless of gender. Maybe it's the taboo that comes with cheating - maybe this is why they do it in the movies, because having sex when you're not supposed to have sex is just, well,  _ better.  _ Patrick decides to run with this. It's the least scary explanation.

Much more imposing is the suggestion that he is, with the graceless fear of a plummeting skydiver, falling in love with Pete. It took him four and a half years to decide he loved Connie. He's known Pete for four and a half days. The only way he can continue to function is by leaving these explosive dots very firmly un-joined.

He spends the afternoon reading on the balcony. It's easier to focus on fiction - it makes everything around him feel like fiction, too.

He plays at being 18 and dressing up for a date with the cute guy in his math class, or whatever it is kids do when they're not repressed. He combs what little hair he has and sculpts his budding beard. When he puts his glasses on and cocks a corny smile at himself, he looks something near okay. His skin fits better than it did two days ago, somehow.

Pete looks lovely. He’s leaning against the reception desk, casual and model-like. His beachy style has been refined into something sharper, his hair combed back and his shirt salmon-coloured, smart. He holds out an arm and Patrick takes it, feeling blissfully old-fashioned and utterly enamoured.

The restaurant is lovely, too. They share a bottle of wine and Patrick imagines they're in Paris or Rome, far away from cares or pasts or wives. Their hands end up joined, and Pete's looking at him with those kind eyes and laughing at whatever stupid thing he said and Patrick's never felt more like a fairytale prince. Until the stare.

It's nothing, really. It's a middle aged man, walking past their table and staring at their joined hands. Really staring, like someone might at a car wreck. Then he looks away and it's over and it's nothing but Patrick sees it, feels it. Feels different. In Pete's utopian hotel, it's easy to forget that what he and Pete are doing is still a sin in some people's eyes. Patrick lets go of Pete's hand.

Being gay would mean facing much more than looks. It would mean coming out to family, to friends, and hoping desperately that they still see the same Patrick. It would mean being different. Being  _ wrong.  _ Patrick's not sure he's built for that.

Pete makes it look easy. His sexuality oozes from him in ways that Patrick's been conditioned to wince at - Patrick never understood why gay guys felt the need to act like this, to emulate drama and exuberance. Aspects of Pete are very feminine - sometimes Pete scrapes his hair out of his face or gestures with his hands and it reminds Patrick that Pete belongs to a world Patrick's barely experienced. Patrick's been so fixated on Connie that he forgets he's also lying to Pete.

Pete thinks he's gay. Pete thinks he's  _ not _ some straight tourist peering at gay families like they're circus acts, or a perverted predator indulging a secret kink. He thinks Patrick's a decent guy. Patrick takes a gulp of wine and drowns in guilt.

"You okay?" Pete says around a mouthful of Tuscan sausage. "What’re you thinking about?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Nothing. Just - nothing."

Pete frowns, swallows. "You should come to karaoke tomorrow night. It's fun. It's not just karaoke, it's, like, drinking and dancing and stuff. We have some amazing drag queens, too."

This doesn't make Patrick feel any better. He doesn't  _ get  _ it, the obsession with dressing up as women, with singing and dancing and parties. A brightly coloured shirt is too much drama for Patrick. "I'm not really a party guy," he says.

Pete deflates a little. "Okay. Well - I'll be there, if you change your mind."

Patrick decides to have some more wine. It alleviates some of the worry. By the time he’s full and half-drunk, it's difficult to focus on consequences. They walk back to the hotel in contented silence. Patrick even plucks up the courage to take Pete's hand.

"Do you wanna - uh, come to my room," Patrick asks as they approach the elevator. "Or - your room, I guess."

Pete slips a hand to his waist and nods. "I'd love to," he purrs. He's so seductive. Maybe he's some kind of siren. They begin to kiss on the way to the room, arms slung around one another's hips. Patrick wants to hold Pete until all the worries go away. He can't quite remember what all of them were, but they seemed pretty serious at the time.

They fall into Patrick's room and onto crisp white sheets. Pete hums as he looks around. "You got a nice one," he says. "Lovely view. New showers fitted, too. Anyway - you can fuck me, if you like."

Patrick blinks with conversational whiplash and Pete grins, then surges forward and kisses Patrick deeply. "No pressure," Pete whispers, as he lowers their twined bodies to the bedspread, "you just look hot tonight."

Patrick snorts into the kiss. "You should get your eyes tested."

Pete shakes his head. "Nothin' wrong with my eyes. It's your head that's the issue."

"Huh. I thought you enjoyed my head..."

Pete laughs into Patrick's chest, his thigh pressed awkwardly over Patrick's hip. Patrick's cock throbs; a little to the left would be just right. "Shit," Pete says all of a sudden. "Fuck."

"What?" Patrick says, assuming the worst. Pete's just remembered he hates Patrick. Pete's actually a figment of Patrick's imagination. Pete's been hired to kill Patrick, and Patrick’s last words will have been about blowjobs.

"Let me check..." Pete suddenly sits up and reaches for his wallet. "Oh, no, it's cool," he says, retrieving several little plastic packets. "Got my emergency lube. You never know when you might need to get railed."

Patrick smiles weakly, but all he can think of is that Pete carries lube on his person at all times. Promiscuity has always scared Patrick. There's so much to compete with.

"Anyway, where were we," Pete says, straddling Patrick's thighs and leaning to kiss him. Patrick parts his lips and lets Pete feast on them, closing his eyes and trying to breathe evenly. Pete's shirt is off and he's undoing Patrick's. Soon, Patrick's chest is bared, blushing and heaving in equal measures. Pete presses kisses to his neck, brushes his thumbs over Patrick's nipples, bites down into the soft skin of his belly. 

"Fuck," Patrick groans, pushing his hips up into Pete's ass. His cock throbs, eager for the tight, warm heat of Pete's body. He's about to have sex with a man.  _ He's about to have sex with a man. _

And he'll be damned if he isn't going to prove himself to Pete. Pete is feminine, elegant; he wants to be fucked and he wants Patrick to do the fucking. Men don't just lie there moaning - if Pete wants a top, a top he will get.

Instead of rolling smoothly over Pete, Patrick nearly manages to push Pete off the bed in his efforts to switch their positions. "Whoa, there," Pete breathes, shuffling himself into a less perilous space, "I'm getting old, be gentle with me."

"Sorry," Patrick says awkwardly as he clambers into place. He regrets it immediately; at this angle, his chins are on full display and his belly hangs down, brushing the flat, toned skin of Pete's torso. He kisses Pete to make him shut his eyes.

Fuelled by wine and arousal, Patrick fumbles with the buttons on Pete's jeans as he begins to press kisses to Pete's chest. Pete's cock is hard, damp, springing against his stomach when Patrick releases it from his briefs. Patrick takes it in his hand and pretends it's his own, jerking it slow and steady, just the way he likes.

Pete writhes to get his pants off, kicking them to the floor and laying out beneath Patrick in all his naked glory. For a few seconds, all Patrick can do is stare. Pete's body is a thing of beauty; tattoos snake over his toned legs, his slim hips bisected by his glistening, red cock and one arm slung behind his head. He's shaved bare, save for a trail of dark hair underneath his belly button. Patrick lands a kiss to it, feels the throb of Pete's cock against his cheek.

He's brought back to his own body when Pete pulls at his shirt, still hanging off his shoulders. He lets it fall and tries not to feel self-conscious; it's nothing Pete hasn't seen before. He quickly gets his cock out - Pete likes his cock. He tries not to stroke it too much. He already feels as if he could come in the next ten seconds.

Speed is clearly important to both of them - Pete reaches for a sachet of lube and rips the corner off, squeezing the gel into his fingers and reaching between his legs. Patrick sits back with his cock in his hand and feels a bit useless as he watches Pete's forefinger sink into his body, watches Pete writhe with it, a moan spilling from his mouth. This is way out of Patrick's area of expertise. The holes he fucks are generally self-lubricating.

"It's not that I don't trust you," Pete breathes, except it totally is and Patrick doesn't blame him. Patrick wouldn't trust a random guy with his bare asshole either. "Just figured you might not - ah," he groans as he switches to two fingers. "Might not have done this before. Or - have you?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Keep going, it's - it's hot." He begins to stroke his cock slowly, sees the way Pete's eyes darken when they rake over him. It makes him feel sexy.

Pete's hand settles over his own cock as he switches to three, then four fingers. His legs are spread, his inner thighs glistening with lube. Patrick's cock throbs at the thought of sinking into him, of coming deep inside him. "Okay," Pete pants, removing his fingers and wiping them on his discarded shirt. "I'm ready."

Patrick reaches for the condom and rolls it smoothly over his cock. It's the one part of this he can do with confidence. He smears a little lube over his length and hovers over Pete, lining himself up. Pete's hand slides to his neck and he nods encouragingly. "Fuck me," Pete breathes. "Fuck me."

He feels the head of his cock sink into Pete's body and groans at the sensation. The more he pushes, the more he feels like crying - it's so good, so right to feel Pete's legs wrap around him and Pete's arms around his neck. When he feels his balls rest against Pete's skin, he breathes out, biting his lip to keep himself from either coming or saying  _ I love you. _

It feels different in the most amazing ways. The angle is a little more awkward, Pete's body less pliant, but as Patrick begins to roll his hips, he feels as if he belongs. He's sweating after fifteen seconds, his cheeks heating and his chest heaving, but he's so turned on it doesn't matter. Sex has never been so eager, so exciting - he fucks Pete in deep, quick strokes, his cock singing. The slap of their hips isn't gross, nor is the dab of spit on Pete's lips or the smear of precome over Patrick's belly.

As suspected, he doesn't last long. He plunges his cock deep inside Pete and comes, his hips twitching, nudging him deeper, his head spinning and his heart pounding. He presses a kiss to the salted skin of Pete's chest as he catches his breath, his cock still nested inside Pete as he reaches for Pete's cock. He can't quite put it in his mouth at this angle, but he strokes it firmly, rolling his hips in time with his hand, pressing himself deeper into Pete.

"Fuck," Pete says when he comes. For a few moments, they lay there, breathing heavily as Patrick softens inside Pete. Patrick's never felt so close to another person. Patrick's nearer to love that he's ever been, and it feels wonderful.

Pulling away from Pete to dispose of the condom is an act, Patrick feels, of genuine self-discipline. He throws it in the bathroom trash can, misses, then has to scoop it up from behind the toilet. "Great view," Pete calls, and Patrick laughs at himself, naked and halfway under a toilet. "Throw me a towel, would you? I'm - slippery."

They're both halfway clean by the time Patrick crawls into bed beside Pete. "I think that went better than last time," Patrick says, and Pete snorts.

"First time is always weirdest," he replies, resting his head on Patrick's shoulder. His hand creeps over the hair on Patrick's chest. They make a stark contrast.

"Should I shave, too?" Patrick asks, stroking a hand over Pete's smooth chest. "Or is it like - a bottom thing?"

Pete laughs a little. "A  _ bottom  _ thing?"

"Well, like - like - like, a more feminine thing?" Patrick tries. Pete winces.

"Okay, first of all,  _ bottom  _ doesn't mean  _ female, _ " Pete says. "Like - yeah, I'd say I'm more feminine than a lot of gay guys, but I wouldn't call myself a bottom. Some people really identify with that, but I don't really care."

"So, is a bottom, like,  _ more _ gay?" Patrick asks. As far as he can see, having sex with Pete involved much the same process as having sex with a woman. After all this, he could still be straight. 

Pete frowns. "No," he says firmly. "Whatever way you fuck a man, it's still pretty gay."

"But - what about drag queens? Surely that's kind of saying they want to be women?"

Pete shifts away from Patrick. "Okay, gender is a whole other thing. Second of all, no, you don't have to shave. And shaving doesn't make me more feminine, it means I like how it looks so if I think I might have sex, I shave."

"You must shave a lot, then," Patrick says, because he never learned how to shut up. Pete recoils.

"What's that supposed to mean," he replies, his first curled in the pillow.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, "I didn't mean it like that, I just meant - I dunno, I figure gay guys just - just -"

"Just, what?" Pete bites.

"Just, like, have a lot of sex."

"Right," Pete laughs, "so, you're calling me a slut. You  _ just  _ had your dick in me, and now you think you can  _ judge  _ me for  _ my  _ sex life."

"No - no, I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't mean it like that -"

Pete shoves the covers away and reaches for his jeans. "Also, stop with the  _ gay guys  _ thing. We're not a different species."

"I'm really sorry," Patrick pleads, "I'm just - ignorant, about all of this."

Pete scrapes a hand through his hair and sighs. "Look, I get it. This is all, like, new to you. I don't mind you asking questions, but I'm not like, Gay Google or some shit. Plus, a lot of your questions are kind of - inappropriate. And small-minded. And hurtful, honestly. So, I dunno, read a book. Fucking  _ talk  _ to some gay people."

"I will," Patrick promises. His hands shake as he pulls the covers around him, naked and embarrassed. "I'm so sorry."

Pete shoves his shirt on and waves a hand at him. "It's okay. I don't mean to, like, upset you, but I think it's best we don't spend the night together. I  _ like  _ spending time with you, but if you want this to be anything more than sex, you might wanna educate yourself."

Then he walks out the door, and Patrick crumples, cripples with humiliation. He pulls the covers over his head and buries his face in the pillow, his whole body crawling with self-hatred. He wants Pete. He wants Connie. He wants anyone to curl around him and tell him it’s going to be okay. Instead, he has to settle for a pillow that doesn’t belong to him. Loneliness has never been so agonising.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour my good peeps, welcome to the chapter.

The sun isn't up when Patrick wakes. He squints at his phone - 4:38am. He aches as he turns, and remembers the sex, hot and heavy and then cold and fragile. The point of no return was several orgasms ago. He shuts his eyes and tries to retreat from reality.

But reality persists. He shoves his head into the pillow and pulls the covers around him, because he can do that, because he's alone. Because Pete left. Because Patrick drove him away. Patrick's throat puffs up like instant rice and his eyes boil - he gulps loud, desperate breaths of air and hopes the tears dry before they fall. He ends up a shivering, twitching lump of panic. No wonder he's so alone.

It's something he'd joke about, whilst growing up. He'd never had many friends, and once the few friends he did have began to pair off, move in with  _ more than _ friends, it became a distilled fear, a dread that he would slip and fall in his own grotty apartment and no-one would notice until his body began to smell. Then, suddenly, Connie happened, and he found himself less alone than he'd ever been, surrounded by love and family and life. Now, he's taken all of it away with one swift thrust of his cock into someone else.

And he misses that someone. He misses with more feeling than he's ever missed before; it's as if Pete ripped something out of Patrick before he left and stuffed it in his pocket. He's probably squashed it under his heel by now, like an insect, an infestation. Patrick doesn't belong here. 

When he gives up on getting any more sleep, he turns to his phone, flicking mindlessly through the news. A message from Connie says, "Boys on beach," with an attachment of Owen and Toby both soaking wet and covered in sand. Their dad and his dog pose beside them, matching smiles on their faces. Patrick snorts at them, grins until he can see his own reflection in the screen. They don't need Patrick. In their familial equation, Patrick is the inconvenient remainder.

He types  _ gay slang  _ into the search bar fast enough that he can kid himself it was an accident. He reads through the Wikipedia article and taps a few links - he learns he might've been considered a twink a decade ago. He's not sure what Pete is. He decides it's probably better not to assume.

He reads an article about pronouns. He'd never really given much thought to the T in LGBTQ+, nor the Q, and he dreads to think what the + means. The more he reads, the more he learns that this is all quite a lot more complicated than he imagined.

Everything Pete said was right. Being the 'bottom' doesn't mean being the 'woman', because gay relationships don't exist within the heterosexual framework. A lot of what Patrick assumed to be  _ natural  _ turns out just to be  _ societal,  _ and these are different, but Patrick struggles to understand why. He ends up grabbing the pad of hotel paper beside his bed and scribbling down questions, answers, anything. The phrase  _ can of worms  _ springs to mind.

He nearly gives up. Every article links to ten more, every opinion has an equally convincing counter-argument. When his phone reads 6:30, Patrick's brain has begun to sting. He turns off the screen and rubs his eyes. If he's gonna do this right, he needs coffee.

The list is long and ever-growing - he removes everything longer than ten thousand words; there just isn't time. He sticks to the essays. He reads Lorde, and sympathises. He reads  _ Sex In Public  _ and cowers. He gets three paragraphs through Butler and decides to try again later.

It leaves him reeling. He'd heard people talk about sexuality as a spectrum but never really put much thought into what this might mean. He could be bisexual. Or pansexual. Or demisexual - there's so many words, and essays about the words, and other essays saying the words don't even matter. He ends up down a semiotic rabbit hole and loses an hour to Derrida, the bastard. By the time he resurfaces, it's half-past one and his stomach is crying out for attention.

He sedates it with Chinese food and an episode of Queer Eye, which is equal parts uplifting and intimidating. They're all just so  _ confident,  _ in their bodies and their skills and their personalities. Patrick couldn't name a single thing he excels at. Apart from maybe eating. He devours a spring roll as if it might protect him from the scary gays.

But the door is open, now. All he's got to do is creep through it. He tries a softer approach. YouTube.

He watches people talk about their sexualities, their experiences with discrimination, with hate speech. He watches histories of queer theory, of Stonewall, of AIDS. He learns about the horrors and the triumphs and the heroes. A drag queen does his - her? - makeup whilst talking about why she does what she does. A trans man explains dysphoria. An asexual discusses attraction. It's easier this way - less jargon, more human. He avoids the coming out videos, though.

He's exhausted, by the end. He's reached full capacity - if anyone else gives him a piece of information, it will roll off him immediately. It's 5:38pm. If he's going to catch Pete before the karaoke begins, he hasn't got long.

The lack of sleep catches up to him in the shower. The hot water is a warm blanket, the steam making his head feel light instead of sodden. He emerges with burning skin and dizzy vision; the sheets are so cold, the pillows so fluffy. He could just shut his eyes for thirty seconds...

But there's no time. He feels as if he's about to sit an exam - he's done all the preparation he can, and the only thing left to do is face the music. Above all else, what he owes Pete is an apology. He tells himself it doesn't matter if Pete doesn't want to see him again. If Pete rejects him, he'll thank him for his company, excuse himself, and quietly shatter in the privacy of his own room.

He puts on his gayest shirt. It's light blue, with dark blue Hawaiian flowers. It fits like everything else fits - awkwardly. The blue brings out his eyes, though. He quite likes his eyes.

The bar is fairly empty when Patrick peers into it. There's a short, blonde girl cleaning glasses. Pete is nowhere to be seen. Patrick stands in the entrance until someone brushes past him. They're not Pete, either.

Patrick slumps down in a booth and scans the area. There's a family in the far corner, two men at the bar, and a pair of older women in the booth next to him. Pete  _ did  _ say he should talk to some other gay people. Maybe he could go and sit next to the guys at the bar, ask them what they're drinking. Get a conversation going and casually ask them to summarise the American Gay Experience in five sentences or less.

But what if they think he's weird? Intrusive, perverted? Single guys don't just approach couples. They'll think he wants something - maybe a threesome. He'll be reported for harassment and thrown out of the hotel. Pete will smile from the window as Patrick's arrested. Patrick will get what he deserves in prison.

After thirty-five minutes, Pete still hasn't appeared. Patrick checks his phone, answers Connie's text. She replies immediately, three kisses at the end of the message. The guilt is crushing. Patrick should savour these, the last few days before Connie hates him. Instead, he just keeps glancing at the door. Pete probably hates him, too. He rests his head on his fist and allows himself a rich, unrestrained sulk.

The old women who were sitting behind him are suddenly up and moving. Usually when Patrick assumes people are targeting him directly, he's wrong - but this time, they really are coming over to him, drinks and purses in hand. Patrick looks down at himself, checks his shirt isn't hanging open, his fly, his shoelaces. Maybe he's got something on his face. Maybe they can sniff a cheater a mile off and are here to berate him. He throws them a polite smile. It doesn't stop them sitting down in the booth, one next to him and one opposite him. He shifts into the corner. They smell of lavender.

"Settle a bet for us - are you waiting for someone, or are you avoiding someone?"

Patrick looks at them. The one who spoke is wearing pink, her hair in short cornrows threaded with grey. The other wears what he'd previously have assumed is a man's outfit - now he knows it's just an outfit. She looks like an older version of himself. "Uh - waiting, I guess. But - they haven't shown up. So now I'm just - here."

"Told you," one says to the other. "He's dressed for a date." She turns her steely blue gaze on Patrick. "Don't worry," she says, "happens to everyone. It's usually their loss. I'm Suzie." She holds out a hand, and Patrick shakes it.

"Marge," says the other. They both have wedding rings.  _ Lesbians,  _ Patrick's mind helpfully supplies.

"I'm Patrick," he tries, feeling the stammer brewing in his throat. "Um - why did you think I - I - I might be avoiding someone?"

Suzie shrugs. "You look pretty darn terrified. No drink, either. Who'd you get stood up by? A known serial killer?"

Patrick smiles weakly. "Nah. Just - a friend. I dunno, he's pissed at me so, I was gonna apologise. But I guess he doesn't wanna hear it, which is fair."

Suzie's eyes light up. "Ooh, why's he pissed?"

Marge pats her arm. "We don't wanna intrude. We just thought you might want some company. Our grandson has the same look when he's put on the naughty step."

"You have kids?" Patrick asks. They nod simultaneously.

"Five. Some foster kids, mind you, but kids all the same. And eight grandkids."

"Wow," Patrick says. "How did you - uhm," he starts, then bites his tongue. It's not an appropriate question. "Sorry."

"Well, the first two were from my previous marriage," Marge says.

"The Dark Ages," Suzie nods. Marge elbows her.

"To a man, yes," she says, "I ditched the husband and kept the kids. Met this girl a year later."

"Been married, what - thirty-two? Thirty-three years?"

"Thirty-two," Marge nods. "Or - twelve, legally. We had a legal wedding and an illegal wedding."

"Legal wedding was better organised, illegal was more fun," Suzie adds. They talk with that old-age reminiscence, smiling sweetly at one another. Patrick aches for something similar.

"Anyway, tell us about this man," Suzie says. "Is he dishy?"

"Su!" Marge snaps. "But - is he?"

Patrick laughs. "Yeah, I guess. But, I sort of messed up pretty badly, by, like - uh," Patrick stumbles. He shouldn't overshare. He always regrets oversharing. But...he  _ has  _ to tell somebody. "I'm kind of, uh, new. To all this." He gestures at the hotel. "And I think I insulted him. I'm not - I - I was married. Until recently. To a woman."

Someday, he'll tell this story for real. It'll sting with real pain, real loss. This is preparation, then. A foundation for the person he'll become. "I, uh," he continues. "I kind of lost everything. My kids and my family. So - now I'm here, and I thought maybe I'd belong, but I just - don't. I dunno how to function without family."

They both nod slowly. Madge takes his hand like they've known each other for years. It's warm and wrinkly. "Coming out is huge," she says. "It can change your whole life. It's like starting over. How long ago did you tell your wife?"

"Uh, like - like a couple months ago?" Patrick lies.

"Ah," Madge nods. "It can take a while, for them to come to terms. They feel rejected. Embarrassed, maybe. They think they're the cause of it, sometimes."

"She's not!" Patrick says quickly, "She wasn't. It's just - I just - this new guy, I've never - it's never felt like this, I - I dunno."

Madge waves a hand. "You don't need to explain yourself, honey. We get it."

Patrick's throat begins to feel tight again. "Well - I feel like I do, because the things I said were just so - so ignorant and hurtful. And I'm just so  _ scared,  _ of - of - of what it all means."

Marge squeezes his fingers. "You're new," she says gently. "It's a learning process. All this?" She gestures to the hotel. "Extras. Now, this man - do you want to be with him?"

Patrick looks at the space where his wedding ring used to be, and then nods. 

"Do you think he wants to be with you?"

Patrick shrugs. It seemed like it, when Pete held him close. "Yeah, maybe. But - only if I learned how to like, talk to gay people." It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud.

Suzie seems to think so too. "You know, from my point of view? I wanna see that someone's trying. Like, yeah, I don't wanna be asked which of us is the man," - they look at one another, roll their eyes - "but, I don't think it makes someone irredeemable. Everyone's gotta start somewhere. And everyone makes mistakes. We might look like we belong here now, but, jeez. To begin with, it was all  _ am I gay enough? Am I too gay? Do I dress right? Do I talk right?" _

Patrick nods. He's asked himself all of those questions in the past few days.

"And, we're still learning. All these kids, calling themselves non-binary, ace, whatever, it can be difficult to understand for old coots like us. But we try. Your guy just wants you to try."

"Okay," Patrick nods. "I - I think I can do that."

"Good man," Suzie says. "Now - are you staying for karaoke?"

Honestly, it sounds like hell. Patrick hates bright colours and loud music. But, the lesbians are looking at him expectantly. If two old ladies can handle it, Patrick can stick it out for an hour or two. He has an entourage, now. "Sure," he says. "Shall I get us some more drinks?"

An hour later, they're sat by the pool, watching the band play. They're good - Patrick remembers he likes playing music, and can't think why he stopped. They snack on nachos, watching people buzz around them, most of them average, just like Patrick. When the band takes a break, the famous karaoke begins; some people are terrible, others brilliant. The overwhelming majority are mediocre. Patrick feels more at home with each warbled rendition of  _ Dancing Queen. _

Then, vision-like, Pete appears across the pool, dappled with coloured lights. Patrick doesn't know whether to stare or hide. He's too tired for anything but the former; Pete looks so lovely, dressed up for the party in a white shirt with rolled sleeves that show off his tattoos. He's probably busy. He's probably stressed. Patrick is definitely the last person Pete wants to talk to.

But Patrick has to try. He weaves his way around the pool, leaving Marge and Suzie to the remnants of the guac whilst a man in a very glittery jacket murders Madonna onstage. Pete's talking to one of the band members. He's pretty, tall, toned. Patrick fights viciously against his impulse to run away and never return.

"Pete," he breathes, stumbling into Pete's eyeline, sweaty and half-asleep. No matter how badly this goes, he can rejoice in the knowledge that his bed is waiting for him. "Hi," he says to the tall band member. TBM looks down at him and slurps very pointedly on a pink curly straw. "Um. Sorry, I just - uh, could I talk to you, Pete? If - if you have a minute?"

Pete takes a long look at him, then nods, jerking his head away from the pool and the people. Patrick follows. TBM swans away to join the other stunning model men.

Pete leans against the wall separating the pool from the beach and folds his arms. "I thought you weren't a party guy," he says dully.

"I'm not," Patrick says, "but - but this is awesome. Like, really cool." Do people still say  _ cool? _ Patrick can't remember. "Uh, some lesbians invited me, so - so I had no choice. Marge, and Suzie. Do you know them?"

Pete nods slowly. "Yeah, they're long-time patrons."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says suddenly. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I was naive."

Pete shakes his head. "I don't need an apology. In fact, I'm pretty sure you already apologised, like, twenty times. It's cool."

So people  _ do  _ still say it. "No," Patrick replies, "no it isn't. I - I actually did some research," he says, fighting the urge to retrieve the cheat sheet stuffed into his pocket. "And - and I know  _ why  _ I'm sorry, now. I'm sorry I equated shaving with, with, like, receiving the, uh. Penis. I was implying that shaving is somehow, like, naturally female, and this suggests not only that women who don't shave are somehow  _ un _ female, but that gay men who do are like, not men. Also it puts pressure on transwomen to, uh, modify their bodies even further in order to be considered women, and anyway, gender is, like, a construct, so really we're all just finding ways to navigate a binary that doesn't really exist. But, just 'cause it doesn't exist doesn't mean there aren't real life consequences when breaking away -"

"Holy fuck, stop," Pete says, blinking at him. His mouth twitches like he's thinking about smiling, though. "When I said read a book, I wasn't really serious."

"I know," Patrick says, "but - I needed to. You're right, I have to - to take responsibility. There's a lot more I need to learn, but I'm gonna try. It's the least I can do."

Pete bites his lip and his eyes glow in the evening light. "Well - I've never been wooed with discourse before."

"So - I - I wooed you? Like, successfully?"

With a snort of laughter, Pete uncrosses his arms. "Maybe. I was never, like, properly mad at you, I just - it's sweet. What you did. You're sweet."

Patrick's shoulders release several years' worth of tension.

"And - I don't mind that you don't wanna label yourself just yet," Pete says. "I think I kind of wanted you to, but that's not, like, fair of me. I don't mind, as long as you like  _ me. _ "

"I like you," Patrick says quickly. "I really like you."

Pete smiles at the sand dune he's been crafting with his foot. "Okay. Well, I like you too. Maybe we could - "

"Pete!" someone shouts. A young man in an apron scurries up to them and looks anxiously between them. "I'm sorry, there's just a problem in the kitchen, we thought we had enough of the chicken but now table thirteen wants some and we only have two more and I don't know what to tell them."

"Okay," Pete tells him. "Don't worry, tell them I'll just be one minute."

The man nods and hurries back towards the bar. Pete sighs.

"God, okay, I better go deal with this. Things will slow down once the kitchen closes, can you give me like - an hour?"

That'll take them to quarter past ten. Another drink with Pete, perhaps a dance, means another hour after that, maybe more. Maybe he can grab a nap in between shifts. "Sure," Patrick says.

"I'll come find you." As he walks away, he touches a hand to Patrick's wrist and it makes his skin tingle. Patrick turns, looks out at the glittering ocean, and grins widely.

He spends the next hour trying, desperately, to stay conscious. Marge and Suzie are still going strong - they're holding hands, now, talking and smiling like they're strangers at a bar and not life partners. Patrick stares at their wedding rings. He wonders what their kids think. Toby probably wouldn't care if Patrick shaved his head and painted himself blue so long as he kept providing food, gifts and attention. Pete said families come in all shapes and sizes - only now is Patrick starting to believe him.

It hits 10:30pm and Patrick's beginning to gravitate towards the tabletop. Every time he blinks, he feels as if he blacks out a little bit. The poolside is beginning to clear - the karaoke has stopped and a dance floor has formed, dotted with swaying couples. The men at the table next to them are tidying their things; one of them holds a little girl in his arms. She's fast asleep. Patrick aches for his kids. Also, his bed.

"Hey, babe," says a voice that can't possibly be directed at Patrick. Then Pete's face appears in the corner of Patrick's eye and Patrick suddenly knows what swooning feels like.  _ Babe.  _ God, he'd let Pete do anything to him. "Sorry I'm late. Hey, ladies."

Marge frowns at them both, at Pete's hand on Patrick's shoulder. "You - this is your man?"

Patrick grins, nods. He can't quite believe it either.

"You told them about me?" Pete asks.

"Yeah - I hope that's okay," Patrick says unsteadily.

"All good things, I hope," Pete grins.

Marge and Suzie exchange a knowing look. "Sure," Suzie giggles. "This one's got quite a thing for you, Pete. Much better than that other one. Or the one before that.  _ Or -  _ "

"Su!" Marge snaps. "I’m glad you’ve made up. He's a nice boy. Very nice boy. Been bringing us drinks all evening!"

"I can see that," Pete nods. "Do you mind if I steal him for a dance?"

He offers Patrick his hand and Patrick stares at it. He hasn't danced in years.

He'll probably make a fool of himself. Then again, he can't make more of a fool of himself with his feet as he can with his mouth. When he takes Pete's hand, Pete kisses his fingers. Patrick's list of Reasons To Pass Out  _ g _ rows longer.

"I can't dance," Patrick admits as Pete tugs him towards the pool of coloured lights. "I once did a tango class, but -"

"Neither can I," Pete shrugs. "But I'm pretty sure it's all in the hips." He turns and places his hands on Patrick's waist, pulling him closer. Patrick is suddenly engulfed, eclipsed by Pete. Pete's kisses dissolve like candy floss on Patrick's tongue. Touch becomes a wonder; taste, a miracle. Pete sways to the beat of the music and all Patrick can think to do is hold on tight.

Patrick ends up with his head resting in the crook of Pete's neck, staring at the world around them like he's watching a movie. He can hear the beat of Pete's heart below the music, feel the rush of his breathing. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, but he's pretty sure it must be love.

When they slow to a stop, Patrick straightens up, lurching out of semi-consciousness. Pete says something and Patrick only hears vibrations.

"What?" he says.

"You alright?" Pete says, his hand coming to rest on Patrick's jaw. When Patrick nods, Pete kisses him, twice, on the swell of his bottom lip. "Listen, I might have to help clear up for a little while - but, after, I was thinking we could go back to my place, have a little make-up sex."

It sounds wonderful, but the only thing Patrick's fantasising about at the moment is his bed. Pete likes sex, though. He'll be disappointed if Patrick says  _ no.  _ Patrick could just lie there, maybe. Catch forty winks before the big finale. Then again, falling asleep during sex would probably be less polite than just being honest. God, Patrick's too tired to think. "Sounds great," Patrick says. "I can just, um, wait."

"Sure?" Pete asks, "'Cause I can probably persuade Danielle to close up, if you wanna get going."

"No, no," Patrick lies, "it's - it's -" It's not fine. Patrick is exhausted. Lying has a habit of leaving everyone unhappy. "Actually, I sort of - I was reading queer theory at five o'clock this morning, so - so, I might go to bed, if that's okay?"

Surprisingly, Pete doesn't fly into a rage. Nor does he announce that he never wants to see Patrick again. Instead, his eyes widen. "You - read  _ theory?  _ For me? Fucking hell."

"I'm really sorry, I'm just, like, really tired and I  _ want  _ to, like, party all night but - but -"

"Hey, hey, whoa," Pete says, touching his hands to Patrick's arms. "It doesn't matter! It literally is of no consequence. You know you overthink things, right?"

Patrick nods sheepishly. "I'm -"

"If you apologise one more time I'll push you in the pool," Pete says. Patrick purses his lips innocently and it makes Pete laugh. "Give me one second. Try to stay awake," Pete grins, and disappears indoors. Patrick stares after him.

The next few minutes pass in a sleepy haze - Marge and Suzie head to bed, arm in arm and wishing Patrick luck. They refer to Pete as his  _ boyfriend _ and it makes Patrick feel like an enamoured teenage girl. When Pete reappears, he gives Patrick a thumbs up and packs him into the elevator, an arm around his waist as if he thinks Patrick might keel over. It’s not an unlikely scenario. 

There’s no sex. The closest to arousal either of them get is looking at each other in pyjamas. Pete looks better in Patrick’s shirt than Patrick ever has; it hangs just right, accentuating his biceps and his flat stomach. Patrick, on the other hand, is wearing a t-shirt that says ‘This is not a drill’ underneath a picture of a hammer. It’s always been an effective contraceptive. Pete snorts at him and ushers him into bed. 

Patrick watches Pete fuss for a few moments, combing his hair and cracking his joints. Before he gets into bed, he peers at the sheets of paper littered over Patrick’s bedside table, his sheets of notes from his Queer Odyssey. Pete doesn’t say anything, but Patrick sees him smile. 

It’s all so familiar, so domestic, the way Pete sits up in bed and checks his phone beside Patrick, the way he strokes his fingers through Patrick’s hair and pecks him on the shoulder as he wishes him goodnight. Patrick’s spent so much of his life thinking a gay relationship wouldn’t provide this kind of affection, that it was unnatural, that a man couldn’t possibly make him feel so loved, so cared for. But Pete’s arms curl around and him and Pete’s breath falls over Patrick’s neck and Patrick can’t imagine anything so natural. He shuts his eyes and doesn’t think about how much it scares him. 


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick's vaguely aware that there's a hand on his ass. It's light in his room, a soft morning glow filtering through the blinds and throwing slim white rectangles over the wall in front of him. Patrick watches them for a few moments as he tries to figure out whether the hand is there by accident or not.

He's never given much thought to his ass. It's always just been _there,_ a little too flabby for Patrick's tastes but functional nevertheless. Connie would occasionally give it a pat and a compliment - Patrick figured she was mostly joking. The hand is doing more than patting, though. It's sort of, _feeling,_ cupping and squeezing and pinching in strange places. Patrick's dick is soft in his shorts, but it stirs as the hand dips between Patrick's cheeks. It's - different. 

The hand stills when Patrick turns to look at the person it's attached to. Pete looks back, playful and guilty. "Hi," he says, "I got bored of being the only one awake."

"What are you doing," Patrick says, his voice thick with sleep. Pete's fingertips rest underneath the swell of Patrick's ass. He wonders what it would feel like if he took his shorts off.

"Just - exploring. Do you want me to stop?" Pete asks. Patrick wonders if he's hard, just from touching Patrick.

"No," Patrick replies. "Feels good." He settles his back against Pete's chest once more as Pete slides a hand into his shorts and grazes his fingertips over Patrick ass. He kneads it slowly, deliberately, the flesh giving easily in his hand, then slides down between Patrick's legs to brush at his balls. Patrick lets his eyes fall shut, focusses only on Pete's touches.

Over his shorts, Pete runs a finger along the soft line of Patrick's cock where it rests against his thigh. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but Patrick feels himself swell, rise under Pete's touch. Then Pete's thumb hooks underneath his waistband and pulls his shorts down a little, exposing his ass but leaving his cock woefully contained. Pete goes back to touching, his fingers ghosting over the crease between his cheeks and dipping lower, almost touching the place Patrick never dared touch himself.

Patrick curls his hands into fists in an effort not to relieve his cock, pressed against his shorts and pulsing harder with each teasing squeeze of his ass. Pete's thumbs spread him apart, not probing, just suggesting, exposing the potential of what's to come. Then, Pete shifts his hips and Patrick feels it, the jut of Pete's clothed cock against his ass, the moistened fabric brushing over Patrick's skin, the unmistakable shape of the head pressing gently between his cheeks. A wave of tension washes over Patrick, and Pete must feel it too because he stills, his breath hot at Patrick’s throat.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Patrick stays quiet. He wants this. He wants to know what it might feel like to have Pete inside him, spreading him open. But - he's not prepared. He hasn't yet steeled himself for this, hasn't thought it through, hasn't given himself the space to think about it. Pete's cock still rests against his ass, and it panics him.

"Gonna need a definite answer, baby," Pete whispers, soft and sweet.

"Um - can - can we wait," Patrick replies.

"Of course," Pete says gently, his lips pressing to Patrick's neck. "Yeah, of course. Do you wanna do something else? You can fuck me, if you like."

Patrick's cock perks. "Yeah," he breathes, "if - if you're okay with that."

"Fuck yeah," Pete grins, leaning to grab his wallet from the bedside cabinet. On his way back, he leans over Patrick, kisses him deeply, slowly. Patrick shuts his eyes and sighs into it. He could get used to this.

They both turn, Pete's back to Patrick's chest and Pete's shorts pulled down to his knees. The most Patrick can do is put a hand on Pete's ass before he realises he has no idea what he's supposed to do next. They don't usually show this bit in porn. "Um - how do I, uh, like - without hurting you?" Patrick stumbles.

Pete flicks the lube and the condom at him. "Don't worry. I'll tell you if you're hurting me. First of all," Pete says, and takes Patrick's hand from his ass. Then, he brings Patrick's fingers to his lips and puts them in his mouth, sucking softly. They end up profoundly wet, as does Patrick's cock. "Now, open me up a little."

Patrick brings his hand to Pete's cheeks once more, pushing between them until he feels Pete's hole. He presses a finger inside slowly, feeling Pete’s tightness. It's - odd.

"Lube, now," Pete orders, and Patrick fumbles with the small sachet, careful not to spill any as he squeezes a little onto his fingers. He repeats the process, this time with two fingers, gently spreading Pete apart. Each finger requires a little more lube, and pushes more groans from Pete, especially when Patrick crooks his fingers and finds Pete's prostate. "Fuck," Pete says, grasping at his own dick, glistening with precome. "Okay - I think I'm good to go."

Patrick's cock throbs, neglected beneath the waistband of his shorts. He pushes them down enough to let it spring out, aching to be touched. He wraps a hand around it and grazes it over the swell of Pete's ass, leaving a wet stripe over Pete's skin. Then, he shifts his hips closer, rolls on the condom, and pushes the head of his cock between Pete's cheeks. He slides home slowly, gloriously, burying himself in Pete's heat until their bodies are flush against one another.

"Feels good," Pete breathes, his eyes shut tight. "Move."

Sliding an arm around Pete's chest, Patrick begins to thrust, slow and sleepy. It's different to last time - less pressure, less performance, more space to think, to feel. Patrick allows himself to explore as he fucks, his thumb brushing over Pete's nipples, then trailing down his body to grasp at Pete's cock, stroking to the beat of his thrusts. He places kisses along Pete's shoulder, listens to the moans that spill from Pete's lips when Patrick twists and thrusts just right.

"Patrick," Pete groans, and Patrick sighs into Pete's skin, pushing himself deeper, his dick swelling at the sound of his own name, cried out by a man. "Fuck, Patrick."

So Patrick fucks, guiding them both towards the brink slowly, deliberately. He ravishes Pete as he deserves, jerking his cock and cupping his balls, touching him, holding him as he begins to come, his body quivering in Patrick's arms. Patrick rocks his hips, pressing himself deep inside Pete as his cock twitches, spills. He closes his eyes and breathes through it, feels Pete's warmth, his weight.

"Fuck," Pete says again, twisting in Patrick's arms and crushing himself against Patrick's chest. "Fuck, that was good."

Patrick would love to play it cool, to smile and peck Pete on the lips as if he knew it all along, but Patrick has not been, is not and will never be cool, so he says, "Really?"

Pete lets out a breathless laugh and tucks his forehead underneath Patrick's chin. "Yeah, you idiot. Fuck."

They breathe together for a few moments before Patrick shuffles off to clean up. As he stands, he presses a kiss to Pete's mouth and Pete's fingertips drift over his chest. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to how sexy Pete makes him feel.

But he enjoys the cuddling almost as much as he enjoyed the climax. He likes it when Pete holds him, pecks his cheek like they've been together an age and strokes his fingers through Patrick's hair. Anxiety gnaws at the edges of the picture - it's more than sex, more than a fling, and it becomes more solid with each flutter of Patrick's stupid heart in his useless chest. He kisses Pete softly and tries to forget about it.

"So, I have a little problem," Pete says after a few minutes of quiet breathing. He must feel the tension that rushes to Patrick's frame because his arms squeeze around Patrick and he laughs gently. "No, no, it's nothing important. It's just - it's Sunday, and me and some friends usually surf on Sundays."

"Oh," Patrick says, relaxing against Pete, "don't worry, I can occupy myself for the day. We can do something tomorrow." He sets aside the revelation that Pete's a surfer, because of course he is, and Patrick's cock needs to keep its big fat head out of proceedings.

"Well, I was kind of thinking - like, I wanna spend as much time with you as I can, so, I wondered if you'd wanna come along?" Pete asks. Patrick shifts to stare at him. He looks so hopeful.

"Surfing," Patrick says slowly. "Like - on a board. In the ocean."

"That's my understanding of it, yeah."

Patrick's lip gets the brunt of his decision-making anxiety as he begins to tear at the inside with his teeth. Pete's hand stills his jaw.

"I've never been surfing," Patrick informs Pete.

Pete's thumb touches his chin. "Don't worry. I'll teach you," Pete says. "Lots of contact, barely any clothes...it'll be fun."

Patrick laughs until his brain picks out a minor, catastrophic detail. "Wait - you and some friends?"

"Yeah," Pete says, "I do have a life outside of this hotel."

"But - like, you want me to meet them? Your friends?"

Pete hums into the side of Patrick's head and Patrick feels it in his temporal lobe. "Sure. I know it's only been - what, less than a week? But, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say it's going pretty well."

"Yeah," Patrick grins, "pretty well."

"And, like - I dunno, I think they'd like to meet you. They're all super chill, so."

"You - you told them about me?" Patrick asks, a little incredulous.

Pete rolls his eyes. "You told your lesbians about me! I can't tell my friends, too?"

"No! No, of course, you can tell them, I just," Patrick shrugs, "I didn't think you'd want them to, like...I dunno." The truth is, Patrick thought Pete would be ashamed of him. Would keep things secret, private. Patrick wouldn't have blamed him for it. It's painfully obvious that Pete can do much, much better.

"I haven't told them your life story, just that - I dunno, that I've met a guy. And - I sort of - kind of - um," Pete stumbles, and Patrick grins wider.

"Go on," he goads, poking Pete in the stomach. Pete huffs into the pillow and groans. "Come on, don't get all bashful."

Pete manages to look shy and defiant all at once. "I dunno! They know I like you! That's it! Leave me alone."

Patrick laughs as Pete squirms under his gaze, eventually folding his arms and glaring at Patrick. "Stop it," Pete snaps. "You're making me lose my carefree demeanour."

Kissing him is so easy. Patrick barely has to think about it anymore, just cups Pete's face in his hands and pushes their mouths, tongues together. He knows the way Pete's hands will slide to his waist, that if he kisses Pete long enough, Pete will let out a tiny, contented sigh. It's barely about sex anymore - it's about Pete, Pete's hopes, fears, past, future, present. Against all odds, Patrick's need to explore Pete overrides his social anxiety. 

This is how he ends up staring out at Monterey Bay with a surfboard under his arm and a flock of buff surfers surrounding him. He should have anticipated that Pete's friends would all be as lovely as Pete - they may be older than Patrick but they sure don't look it. Bald patches and greying hair are offset by washboard abs and biceps that could squash Patrick's skull. The women are equally lovely, tanned and muscled and intimidating.

"You must be Patrick," one of the men says, holding out a hand. Patrick shakes it quickly, nods. "You surf much?"

"No," Patrick says. "Like - never. Um - do you?"

"Every weekend for, what. Thirty years?"

Pete tuts next to him. "This is Dean. He thinks 'cause he's a grandpa he can lord it over us."

"Well, you kids have a lot to learn," Dean says, patting Pete on the shoulder.

Pete introduces him to each person in turn - there's only five of them, in reality, and none of them shun Patrick to his face. They talk easily as they walk from the parking lot towards the beach, and Patrick hovers behind them, breathing through his mouth and trying not to work out who Pete might have slept with. One of the women - Sal - drops in line with Patrick and grins at him.

"Nervous?" she asks. Patrick nods. "Don't worry. They act cocky but they're not all that. They'll be so focussed on themselves they won't even be watching you," she says kindly. "Well - Pete might be."

Patrick smiles at his sandals. "I don't think there'll be much to watch. Like - honestly, I'm fine to just watch the bags, I don't wanna get in the way."

"Hey, we're happy to have you," Sal says. "It's more about socialising than surfing, anyway. You'll be fine."

But Patrick does not feel fine once everyone begins to take their clothes off. Pete whips his shirt over his head and begins to stretch. Patrick clutches his surfboard like a shield and cowers behind it. He's the only man with a shirt on, now. They'll wonder why, and then they'll look at him, and then they'll realise he has a body like melting ice cream. Then they'll tell Pete to raise his standards.

But Pete puts on a thin, long-sleeved rash vest and rummages around in his bag until he finds another. "You want one of these? It's gonna get hot."

A couple of the others have donned them, too. Patrick takes it gratefully; he's not sure if Pete deliberately places his board in front of Patrick to give him some privacy, but Patrick appreciates it either way.

Three of Pete's friends offer to teach Patrick, and when Pete tells them to fuck off, they run towards the ocean, graceful and weightless. Patrick's left standing in his skin-tight vest feeling vaguely sick.

"Okay, rookie," Pete says, brandishing his board like a whip. "This is a board. _This_ is the nose, this is the tail, this is the stringer." He gestures to each, then places the board on the ground, motioning for Patrick to do the same.

"This is the rail," Pete says, gripping the edge of the board. "And when you're paddling out there, you want your body in line with the stringer." He lays flat, bisected by the strip down the middle of the board. "You wanna minimise drag, so don't lie too far forward or too far back. Now you try."

Patrick obeys, pressing his belly to the board as Pete stands over him, nudging him into place with his foot. It’s not as sexy as Patrick thought it might be. 

"So when you're paddling, you wanna use your whole arm. Long strokes, backward and forward, can you do that?"

"You know I can," Patrick grins.

Pete rolls his eyes. "Don't sass me, rookie. Paddle, now."

Once Pete's satisfied with the way Patrick flails, they move on to the pop up. This proves difficult once it becomes clear that Patrick has almost no upper body strength, but it does involve Pete touching him. Patrick's pretty sure a normal teacher wouldn't 'correct his form' quite so often.

"Okay," Pete says after he's drilled Patrick for an hour, and not in the fun way, "I think we're ready to go in the water."

Patrick's not scared of swimming, but he's also not confident at it, and the prospect of floundering about with a surfboard attached to him doesn't fill him with enthusiasm. But Pete's got a spark in his eyes as he scoops up his board, and before Patrick knows it, he's scampering towards the ocean after Pete.

In the back of his mind, Patrick already knew that he would not be good at surfing. His prior experiences with sports, sea and balance are enough to indicate that he will never be at home on a surfboard and yet here he is, clinging on for dear life as a wave propels him towards the shore. He realises he's too far forward at the precise moment the nose catches beneath the water and he's thrown into the waves.

"That was better," Pete tells him as he paddles gracefully towards Patrick. Patrick wipes a mess of seawater, saliva and snot from his face and smiles weakly. "Seriously."

Patrick only believes him because Surf Teacher Pete turned out to be much meaner than expected, and has yet to sugarcoat anything to do with Patrick's surfing skills. Patrick _is_ getting better. One lungful of saltwater at a time.

"Let's go again," Pete says for the hundredth time.

Patrick is tired. He's pretty sure his bald spot is burning bright pink. He's got salt in his eyes and his throat and his ears. The board keeps battering his calves and his arms ache. He tries to pull himself back onto the board and fails.

Pete slides into the water beside him and his hand finds the small of Patrick's back. "Hey," he says, gentle and more Pete-like, "we can stop, if you like. They'll all want beers soon, anyway." He nods towards his friends, bobbing about in the sea. Sal is riding a wave as if she's rollerblading down a hill and not balancing a sheet of plastic on a moving mass of water. Patrick rubs at his stinging eyes. It would be easy to give up.

"No," he says finally. "No, I'm nearly there. I can do it."

Pete grins widely and pecks him on the forehead. "Good man."

He falls off the next couple tries, and the next couple tries after that. Pete's friends are beginning to return to the beach, beers in hand and draped in towels. They’ll probably be watching Patrick, laughing at him, maybe. Patrick paddles out to sea once more and tries to focus on watching Pete. 

“Okay - I’ll take the next one, just watch how I pop up,” Pete says. “It’s all about confidence. If you don’t believe you can do it, you won’t do it. One smooth push, yeah?” 

“Okay,” Patrick nods. Pete lines up with an approaching wave and begins to paddle, reaching full speed at just the right moment before he jumps, balances, soars to shore. He looks beautiful. Once he's on dry land, he beckons to Patrick. There's a wave approaching behind him. Patrick begins to paddle.

He tries to remember everything Pete told him, but in the end, the only technical detail he can remember is _confidence._ He feels the wave begin to propel him and paddles for his life - if he's gonna jump, he needs to do it _now._

So he tries. With every last ounce of strength left in his poor arms, he shoves himself to his feet, keeping his eyes solely on Pete. And then he's surfing. He's riding a wave, his arms are spread and his stance is firm and he's not falling flat on his face. Patrick is not a thrill seeker - in fact, he avoids thrills at all costs - but this, the warm wind curling around him and the glittering ocean beneath him, is sublime.

Pete's whooping at him as he approaches the shore. Patrick's not sure what to do at this point, he's never got this far before, so he just shifts his weight until the board decides for him and tips him into the shallows. For a few moments, he sits in the sand, catching his breath as the waves lap around him.

"You did it!" Pete shouts, bounding through the water towards him like a puppy. "That was awesome!"

"Radical," Patrick replies, letting Pete heave his sodden body to its feet and pull him into a hug.

" _Absolutely_ radical," Pete says warmly, squeezing him tight and wringing him out in the process. "I'm so proud of you."

Patrick grins widely. He did a sport. A _cool_ sport. In front of a cool man. Patrick's never felt this close to invincible. He gets even closer when Pete presses a warm, salty kiss to his mouth in front of the whole beach.

It's then that Patrick pinpoints one of the things he loves about Pete: he is absolutely unashamed of Patrick. He doesn't play up their relationship but nor does he play it down - he happily danced with Patrick in front of his patrons, his colleagues, and now he waxes lyrical about Patrick to his friends, batting away Patrick's attempts to self-deprecate.

Dean claps him on the shoulder as they sit down with a beer. "Well done, buddy," he says. "You're a natural."

Patrick's pretty sure he's never been a natural at anything, but he smiles anyway, especially as the rest of the group begin to crow their agreement. "Took me a month to nail the pop up," says a tough-looking man Patrick thinks is named Isaac. "You did good."

"You gonna be around next weekend?" Sal asks. "You've nailed the worst part, now it's just fun."

"Um," Patrick says, not looking at Pete. They haven't discussed this. It's been easier to avoid it, pretend the week will never end. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

"I could probably give you a discount on an extra night," Pete shrugs, grinning. "You've been an exemplary guest."

Patrick laughs, and for a second, he forgets the lies he's told, the children he's left, the marriage he's ruined. He could stay here, with Pete, running the hotel, surfing every weekend, making love and feeling loved. Pete smiles at him and Patrick imagines.

When the sun has started to set and the buzz of beer has settled at the back of Patrick's skull, the group dissipates. The ride home is spent in satisfied silence - Patrick keeps replaying his moment of triumph, his eyes on the sea alongside them.

"They liked you, by the way," Pete says with a grin. "Sal said you're cute."

"Even in the skin-tight vest?" Patrick asks. Dry clothes have never been such a relief - the world can’t determine the exact dimensions of his belly button anymore.

Pete laughs. " _Especially_ in the skin-tight vest. And, like - you did really well. You're way braver than you give yourself credit for."

Patrick bites back a smile and watches the road ahead. As they approach the hotel, it's hard not to think of it as home _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like a friend, or an enemy, or a bunny photograph dealer, you can find me @the-chaotic-panda on Tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! Enjoy!!! :)

Patrick's pretty sure there's no sexy way to eat spaghetti. He tries, God, he wraps it neatly around his fork and raises it to his lips and then watches in despair as his creation unravels in its entirety, a Catherine Wheel of tomato sauce. His white shirt looks like it could belong to Sweeney Todd, post-breakdown. If Pete still tolerates him after witnessing this, it must be love.

"You like it?" Pete asks, watching Patrick wipe sauce from his chin. Pete, of course, is proving that there  _ is  _ a sexy way to eat spaghetti, especially when one has cooked said spaghetti themselves, from scratch. Patrick's mental list of Things Pete Can't Do is blank, so far.

Patrick's answer is lost in a particularly heroic attempt to slurp the dangling ends of the spaghetti into his mouth. Pete nods his appreciation.

"Have, uhm," Patrick gulps, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin, "have you always cooked?"

Pete swallows and shrugs. "Kinda. I liked it in college, and my mom was always, like, a super good chef. But then I ended up cooking for my ex for, like, seven years or whatever and I started to hate it. Hence," he gestures towards his front door and the hotel beyond, "I'd just eat there. But, I dunno, I've started to get back into it."

"Well, this is great," Patrick says. It would be romantic, too - the candle in between them and the fading sunlight filtering through the blinds - if Patrick didn't look like an extra in Shaun of the Dead.

"You ever cook?" Pete asks lightly.

Patrick shrugs. "Nothing like this. Just, fish fingers, mostly. And, I make a pretty good mac and cheese. Whatever I can trick the kids into eating."

"How often do you have them?"

"Uh," Patrick says, taking another mouthful to buy himself some more thinking time. "Every few weeks. Their dad has them every other weekend."

"So, like - do you and your ex wife still get on?"

Patrick pictures his ideal scenario. "Yeah. Yeah, she's been great. It's not been easy, but - it could've been a lot harder, I guess."

Pete chews thoughtfully. "Do you regret any of it? Like - are you better off, now?"

Patrick looks at Pete and nods. The world could crumble around them and he'd be better off with this man. "I only regret not realising sooner. And, like, avoiding all of the hurt and guilt and stuff. But then I guess I wouldn't have met you, so, maybe it was all meant to be."

He shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth before he can come on any stronger. Pete just smiles softly.

It's a testament to Pete's cooking that they don't talk much until their plates are clean; when Pete moves to stand up, Patrick stops him, scooping the dishes into his hands. "You cooked, I'll wash. Those are the rules." Patrick turns on the tap to drown out Pete's protests.

When the bowl is full, Pete's hand touches the small of Patrick's back. "I won't be a minute, I just have to go take care of something," he says, and then he pecks Patrick on the cheek and sweeps towards the front door.

"Wait - where are you -"

"I'll be back soon!"

The door slams in his wake. Patrick's brain bubbles over and so does the washing up bowl. Still, he begins to scrub - there's something therapeutic about wiping everything clean, something so comforting about wearing Pete's marigolds and using Pete's dish cloths. He can picture a life beyond this, a new marriage, maybe, a new kind of family. The boys would love Pete's spaghetti. They'd never believe Patrick managed to surf. He scrubs at a knife and doesn't think about how much he misses them. How much he's going to miss them.

Pete returns as hurriedly as he left, approaching Patrick as if to hug him and then stepping back at the last moment, his hands tying themselves in knots. "Hey," he says breathlessly. "Um - I, sort of took the week off. From work. So that I can - we can - spend some time together."

"Oh," Patrick says, clutching the tea towel. "That's - that's - really awesome."

"Really?" Pete says, Patrick-like, "It's not too much? I dunno, I got over there and I cleared my schedule and then I thought, shit, what if this is like,  _ way  _ too clingy, and now I'm here and you're looking shocked and I'm hoping it's  _ good _ shocked and not  _ bad _ shocked. So, that's where we're at."

Patrick stares at him, his mouth drifting into a smile as he considers that Pete -  _ Pete  _ \- is nervous about what Patrick might think. He puts down the bowl he's drying and closes the distance between them, his marigolds clutching either side of Pete's face as leans to kiss Pete. Pete laughs against his lips and relaxes into him, his hands slipping to Patrick's hips.

Pete is difficult to let go, so Patrick just keeps kissing, deep and slow and full of promise. Then, he drops lightly to his knees, grinning up at Pete as he unbuttons Pete's jeans. It's as if his sex drive has been dormant for two decades and has woken with a vengeance - he wants nothing more than to get as close to Pete as possible, to lick and suck and fuck until Pete trembles with pleasure.

Patrick's never had sex in a kitchen before. He'd thought it would feel wrong, somehow, that the tiles might make his knees ache or the sight of Pete, bent over the kitchen cabinet, might feel like something out of a cheap porno. But Patrick didn't anticipate the freedom of it all, the fact that he can suck Pete deep and slow, feeling each twitch of Pete's hips and each groan of Patrick's name. When he fucks Pete against the counter, it's with Pete's spine flush against his chest, Pete's cock throbbing in his hand, Pete's soul pressed close to his own. Instead of feeling dirty, it just makes him gleam.

Afterwards, they collapse on the couch, concluding that sex straight after spaghetti probably wasn't the best idea. Patrick almost puts his shirt back on when he looks down at himself, his full belly folding over itself, but then Pete stretches out against him, heavy and warm, and Patrick can no longer justify moving.

"I can hear you digesting," Pete hums, patting Patrick's belly.

"That's your spaghetti in there," Patrick says proudly. "Life really is a miracle."

Pete snorts. "Little Pete Wentz the Fourth."

Patrick laughs, then frowns. "Wait - you're the  _ third _ ?"

"Don't break up with me," Pete says quickly. "I can't account for the sins of my father."

"Peter Wentz the Third," Patrick considers.

"Peter  _ Lewis Kingston  _ Wentz the Third," Pete corrects. "Again, sins. My father. Don't hate me."

"Wow," Patrick says. "Pray tell, do you often feed the peasantry with your fine exotic foods?"

"Shut up."

"Such generosity must exhaust your Lordship's sensibilities - "

"Fuck off," Pete snaps, "absolutely fuck off."

Patrick laughs, watching Pete fold his arms and huff dramatically. Patrick strokes his hair in an effort to calm him down. He just scowls harder with each stroke. "Also - you just asked me not to break up with you," Patrick says. "Does that mean we're, like, together?"

Pete groans and shoves his face into the cushions. "Aw, fuck. Aren't we done embarrassing me?"

"Of course not," Patrick says. "I'm starting to think you've got a crush on me."

Pete laughs and Patrick feels him relax, slumping into Patrick's side and looking up at him. "You might be right."

Patrick nearly pushes it, chases a qualification, but instead he just curls an arm around Pete's shoulders and lets him cuddle close. It doesn't matter what they are, as long as they're  _ something.  _

They fuck again that night, Patrick pressed up against the headboard and Pete bouncing in his lap. Afterwards, when they're close to sleep, Pete places a kiss on his lips and settles beside him, a hand laid lightly on his hip as if Pete's certain Patrick won't float away. Patrick trusts him, wholly.

He's been kidding himself for long enough. Despite all his reading, all his careful examination of his own presumptions, he still can't bring himself to think of the  _ g _ word. Just because he's in falling for Pete, just because he enjoys Pete's body, it doesn't mean he's - he's. He's got to know for certain.

The next day is spent lounging by the pool, drinking too much too early and burning out by 3pm. Patrick spends all day thinking about it - how it might feel, whether it'll hurt, whether he'll  _ like  _ it - and by the time they retreat to Pete's house, he's fragile with anxiety. He's also pretty horny. This doesn't help the anxiety.

As soon as Pete begins to kiss him, he freezes. Should he ask?  _ How  _ should he ask? How does one ask to be fucked in the ass? Is there a code? A signal? Should he wave his butt at Pete until Pete gets the idea? Patrick tries to remember to kiss back as he holds Pete and worries, worries, worries.

"Are you okay?" Pete asks once it becomes clear Patrick isn't focussed on the task at hand.

"Yeah," Patrick says, "yeah, fine."

Pete narrows his eyes. "What're you thinking about?"

"I was thinking, maybe - um," Patrick stumbles, "like. You could, like, be. On top?"

"Like last night?" Pete asks. "Or?"

"Or," Patrick nods.

Pete grins. "Ah. Or. Okay, well, you'd better lay back and relax," he says, pushing Patrick to the bed as he presses kisses to his jaw. "Just to be clear, you want me to fuck you in the ass, right?"

Patrick snorts. "Yeah. Yes please."

"Cool," Pete nods, reaching towards the bedside cabinet. "'Cause, I've been wrong before."

Lube in hand, Pete sits over Patrick, his fingers coaxing Patrick's shirt off. He's getting used to it, doesn't flinch when Pete lands a kiss to his belly or scrapes a thumb over his nipple. Already half-hard, his cock pushes at his shorts, straining against the fabric as Pete rubs him slowly. Patrick drops his head to the pillow and closes his eyes.

Pete teases his fly open and reaches inside, touching Patrick's cock until the head peeks over the waistband of his underwear. Then, he shuffles down the bed until his face is level with Patrick's cock, and presses his lips to the tip, warm and soft and an infuriating tease. Patrick tries to buck his hips, push his cock into Pete's mouth, but Pete pins him down, taking his mouth away in favour of taking his pants and underwear off. Patrick's cock springs out, desperate for contact, and it takes every ounce of self-control in Patrick's body not to touch himself.

He's right not to, because next thing he knows Pete's mouth is on him, taking Patrick's balls between his gentle lips and sucking until Patrick groans. This is fine. This is amazing, in fact. He could go the rest of his life without needing to look beyond Pete's mouth. Anal is probably overrated, anyway.

"You ready for a finger?" Pete asks brightly. He wiggles his hand as if in demonstration.

Patrick stares at it. On the one, fingerful hand, Pete will keep touching him. On the other hand, a finger will go in his ass. But Patrick can’t back out, now. He nods, and Pete's mouth returns to the base of his cock, licking slowly, carefully. Then, Patrick feels the finger.

It's not too bad. It's - there. Inside him. He's pretty sure it's not supposed to be there, until he remembers that prostates exist (or, Pete reminds him) and it feels good. Really, really good. When Pete motions for him to roll over, Patrick does, and then Pete's there between his cheeks again and it's all Patrick can do not to hump the bedsheets.

Patrick watches with wide eyes as Pete pops tube of lube open and spreads some on his fingers. It's cold when it touches his ass, Pete's fingers gently spreading Patrick's cheeks and pressing against his hole. He feels himself stretch, and it doesn't hurt nearly as much as Patrick thought it would; there's a slight burn each time Pete scissors him open, but then Pete touches his prostate and it all fizzles into pleasure. He's beginning to see why Pete likes it.

But the vulnerability doesn't shift - he feels so exposed, spread around Pete's fingers like this. He's raw, open. He feels as if he could cry at will.

"Relax, baby," Pete purrs, touching a hand to Patrick's shoulder. "I promise it'll feel good. You want me to keep going?"

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Just - nervous."

"Nothing to worry about," Pete says, "I'm gonna take care of you. You have a really nice ass, by the way."

Patrick laughs, closing his eyes again and trying to release some of the tension in his body. The way Pete's stroking his prostate helps - so does the feeling of soft sheets against his leaking cock. It's like getting a really intrusive massage.

"How many are we at," he slurs after an elusive amount of time has passed.

"Four," Pete says.

"Fuck." Patrick barely noticed. "You're good at that."

"I know," Pete grins, "practice makes perfect. You ready for the main event?"

Patrick breathes steadily. "Yeah," he says. "Will it - like, hurt?"

"Not if I've done this right," Pete says. "And I've done it right."

"Okay. Yeah, okay."

"You look beautiful," Pete whispers as he hovers over Patrick, his lips near Patrick's ear. Patrick turns, kisses Pete until his neck begins to complain. Then, the head of Pete's cock edges between his cheeks.

It's different to fingers - equal pressure on all sides as the tip breaches him. Pete's cock feels huge, all of a sudden, foreign and out-of-place. If he was gay, surely it would feel more natural. Inch by inch, Pete presses inside, stretching Patrick open, reaching places that even Patrick himself has never reached before. Patrick focuses on the kisses Pete's pressing to his neck and not the fear.

"You okay?" Pete breathes. He's fully inside, now, his hips pressed to Patrick's ass. "You feel so fucking good, baby."

Patrick's still achingly hard, his dick trapped between his stomach and the bed. "Yeah," he squeaks, "it's a lot."

"You want me to start moving?"

Patrick imagines the dick in his ass shoving in and out of him like a pneumatic drill. He feels as if he needs a couple hours to adjust to it.

"I can wait," Pete says, panting over Patrick. Patrick breathes beneath him, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He can do this. It's gotta be easier than surfing.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Go slowly."

Pete lowers himself until his chest rests against Patrick's spine and begins, very gently, to rock his hips. It's better, Patrick quickly realises, it's much better, it generates so much more  _ feeling,  _ Pete's cock nudging against his prostate with each shallow thrust. Patrick lets out a small groan and nods his head. "Yeah. Fuck, that's good."

In response, Pete begins to pull out further, only the head of his cock tucked inside Patrick before he thrusts slowly, deeply. Patrick's cock fills with every push of Pete's hips against his ass - he needs more, more speed, more depth. When he tells Pete so, Pete laughs into his shoulder.

"Easy," he says, "easy does it."

By increments, Pete picks up the pace. He starts with his body flush against Patrick's, his hips jerking, and then pushes himself upright, taking the meat of Patrick's hips in his hands and thrusting harder, faster. It's like scratching an itch he's had for decades, pleasure washing over him like foam over sand and pushing moans from his open mouth.

With each thrust, Patrick's dick rubs against the sheets. If he were to touch himself right now, he's pretty sure he'd come instantly. As it is, he's pretty close, each slap of Pete's hips against his ass pushing him closer to the edge.

Pete moves over him again, their bodies pressed flat, each plane of contact bursting with fizzling heat. Patrick shuts his eyes and moans, listens to Pete's grunts, feels the push of Pete's cock inside him. He comes with a force that makes his head hurt, his vision reeling with colour and his body sweating, singing.

For a few moments, he floats, his mind detaching from his body and watching him from above. Pete continues thrusting, gentle rocks of his body that make the tingling in Patrick's skull burn all the brighter. He thrusts until he comes to a juddering halt, laying himself on top of Patrick and breathing heavily. Patrick feels so full, so sated, Pete's body so close, his cock still resting inside of Patrick, hot and solid. It's unlike anything he's felt before.

Pete shifts on top of him, a groan rippling through both their bodies at once. "Baby," he says gently, stroking a hand through Patrick's hair. Patrick hums his satisfaction, the pillow soft against his face and his eyelids heavy. "C'mere, baby."

Pulling out slowly, Pete slips down beside Patrick and wraps his arms around his prone form. Patrick feels heavy, as if Pete is still on top of him, the rush of orgasm fading and the urge to sleep lulling him out of consciousness. Then, he feels a hand on his face, pushing slicked hair out of his eyes and cupping his cheek.

"Patrick," Pete says, "come back. Talk to me."

Patrick doesn't want to talk. He feels - strange, sated and comfortable but also churned up, open like a wound. He turns onto his side and shuffles his knees closer to his chest. His lower half aches a little. He's not sure if he feels like doing it all over again or running to the toilet and vomiting until he cries. "Feels - weird," he says. "Sorry, I dunno what's wrong with me." His throat feels tight again. He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears in his eyes.

"Hey," Pete says, touching a hand to Patrick's wrist. "Nothing wrong with you. I cried the first time, too. It's intense."

Patrick lowers his hands and smiles weakly. It's not the same panic as it was the first time he touched a man's bare penis, but it's near enough - Pete tries to touch him, cradle him, and Patrick wants it but what he  _ needs  _ is space.

"Do you mind if I take a shower?" Patrick asks. "I'm sorry. I just - I'm sorry."

Pete shakes his head. "Don't be. You want some fresh clothes?"

Patrick almost sobs there and then, because Pete doesn't ask, doesn't need an explanation, just offers help and safety and reassurance. "Yes, please."

There's come stuck to his belly when he finally peels himself from the bed, and his ass is slick with lube. He fights the urge to cover himself as he shuffles towards the bathroom - it's a shallow kind of shame but it makes his skin prickle and his hands shake. It's easier once he shuts the door behind him.

He moves closer to himself once his skin becomes more habitable, the come washed away and the sweat switched for soap. He's glad Pete used a condom - just washing away the lube is bad enough, he's still so sensitive, so open. It felt so good, though. It's the only thing Patrick knows for sure. He's just not sure how he feels about it feeling so good. He lets the hot water burn the sensation from his skin and pretends it's the shampoo that's making his eyes sting.

When he gets out of the shower, he looks at his own steamed-up face in the mirror. After all that, he's still himself. Maybe he's changed; maybe he's been like this all along. He's not sure which terrifies him more.

The bedroom is empty when he creeps around the bathroom door. There's a pile of clothes at his feet and he winces as he bends to pick them up. They're clean, though, and soft, stretchy. When he sits on the bed to put his socks on, he sees that the sheets have been changed. Pete is probably the kindest man Patrick's ever met.

Once Patrick's dressed, he ventures into the lounge. Pete's sprawled on the couch, fully clothed, beer in hand. When he sees Patrick, he grins. "Got you a beer," he says, gesturing to a frosty glass on the coffee table. “I’ve ordered pizza again.” 

Patrick doesn't feel prickly anymore as he sits beside Pete - in fact, the more he settles against Pete's chest, the more at home he feels. Pete wraps an arm around him and scrolls through the TV menu. "You wanna talk about it?" he says gently.

"Just needed some space," Patrick replies.

"S'okay," Pete says. "You liked it, though, right?"

Patrick nods. He did like it; that's what's so scary. For now, though, he decides he's done enough thinking, and turns to kiss Pete. Pete kisses back in earnest, letting Patrick fit a hand to the crook of his neck and thread another through his hair. He can't tell Pete he loves him - can't even admit it to himself - but it's there in the kiss, eager and unwavering and true.

-

The following evening, after a night of sweet kisses and a day of wandering, hand in hand, around the town, Patrick tries to talk about it.

"About last night," Patrick starts as they're walking down the beach, the sun beginning to set beside them. It takes a lot of courage not to start with the phrase "I'm sorry", but he manages. "I really did like it. It was like,  _ because  _ I liked it that I - sort of. Realised. What I've been missing all this time. God, I've wasted so much time."

Pete gives Patrick's hand a squeeze and shakes his head. "No," he says firmly, "you haven't wasted time. Everyone's journey is different."

"I guess. I think I also kind of - like, even after all the reading, I think I still saw it as like - the gayest thing," Patrick says. "I know it's stupid. I just couldn't get that out of my head."

Pete shrugs. "It's a little stupid. But it doesn't matter - you took the leap anyway. Plus, it's not a guaranteed label. As I said, everyone's different."

Patrick looks out at the ocean. "I - I think I  _ know, _ " he says quietly. Just thinking about saying it brings a lump to his throat. "I'm just - I don't feel ready. God, I'm so scared."

Wrapping an arm around Patrick's waist, Pete leads him to a small, sandy hill and sits down. The sky is turning orange, the wind warm and soothing on Patrick's face. "You don't have to be ready," Pete says. "Plus -  _ ready  _ doesn't always look like, y'know, shouting it from the rooftops, telling everyone you know. It can just be holding hands in the street," he smiles, tangling their fingers together. "I had a boyfriend who wouldn't even  _ touch  _ me in public. So, you've come a lot further than you think you have."

Patrick sighs, smiles. "How'd you get to be so wise," he says. Pete just grins, the light of the sunset glowing in his eyes. He's so lovely. Patrick has no idea how he ended up here, sitting beside such a man.

"Can I ask something?" Patrick says quietly. "And - like, you can be honest."

"Sure," Pete says, frowning at him.

"It's super self-indulgent. Like,  _ super." _

Pete laughs. "Go on."

Patrick looks down at his feet, half coated in sand. "I just wondered, why  _ me?" _

"What do you mean,  _ why you?"  _ Pete snorts.

"Like, okay. Basically everyone else here is, like, a model. And some of them definitely  _ are  _ models, you can't have a body like that and  _ not  _ be involved in some kind of promotional - thing. Anyway, you're gorgeous, and you know you could get any of them. Why go for some sad little sunburnt guy at the bar?"

Pete doesn't laugh. People usually laugh. Instead, Pete just looks at him, his gaze filled with sadness. "You don't think much of yourself, do you."

Patrick struggles with words. "Well - it's not  _ that,  _ it's just - I - I - I'm not special. I'm not an idiot, I know I don't look as good as those guys on the beach. And that's not me being self-deprecating, that's just - true. I'm not smart, I'm not talented, I'm not funny, I'm definitely not rich, so - I dunno. I just wondered what made you think, yeah, I like that guy."

Pete raises his eyebrows. "Okay, you wanna know why I talked to you that first night? You really wanna know?"

Patrick nods. Pete's going to have thought he was part of some kind of outreach program.

"I wanted to fuck you," Pete says plainly, spreading his hands in front of him like it's obvious.

"Oh," Patrick replies.

"Yeah. I saw you there and, like, we don't get that many single guys here so I noticed that, and the next thing I noticed was,  _ oh, he has a nice mouth. Oh, he has nice hands. Oh, he has nice shoulders.  _ And I thought I'd talk to you. I took a chance on getting laid, basically."

"Wow," Patrick says, blinking rapidly. "So - you just liked how I looked?"

"Obviously the second you spoke I realised it was gonna be a much longer process than expected, but, yeah, basically. You were hot. That was it."

Patrick feels himself blush. He's never been seen as an object before. "That's so cool," he says.

Pete laughs, shaking his head. "Just because you're not a model, Patrick, doesn't mean you're not attractive. Plus - look, full disclosure, I get around. A lot of these guys are assholes. They want to fuck and run. But with you, I dunno. You were funny, and sweet."

Patrick shrugs. "Sweet seems like a synonym for dull, though."

"Patrick," Pete says, as if it's a command. "Listen. My ex was one of those people. Smart, talented, funny. And, yeah, he did some modelling from time to time. He was in, like, finance or something. I don't even know. He was rich, pretty much. And, yeah, I got caught up in it.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, shifting himself into a more comfortable position. He has a feeling this is a story he needs to listen to.

"We met at, like, a function or something. It was like a fairytale - I was a waiter and he was one of the up-and-comers at this party. He saw me, I guess, and we ended up screwing around in one of the bedrooms of this big old house. I was pretty young, at the time, and he just swept me up, y'know. He took me on his trips, I moved into his big shiny apartment, I was like,  _ jackpot.  _ By twenty-four I had it made - we got married, we bought a place in the country. It was like a dream."

"But...?" Patrick says. He clutches Pete's hand, the tension gathering in his shoulders.

Pete smiles weakly. "But. He was away a lot. And, I wasn't stupid, so when he came home smelling like someone else, I confronted him about it. I didn't expect him to admit it, but he did. He said it was a mistake, and that he'd make it right, and then he spent a load of time with me and it was like it was before we got married, whatever.

"Then he began to get busier at work, and it happened again. I saw pictures of him kissing someone else at some bar. And I confronted him about it, again, and the same thing happened. He was nice for a while, then he went away again. And, like, I know I was an idiot but I  _ loved  _ him, I adored him and I just kept thinking if I could do something right, if I could make him need me, he'd feel the same way again.

"But he was so much smarter than me. He knew what he was doing - he'd let me get sad and then, like swoop in and cheer me up, and then tell me he was there for me like no-one else was. I didn't find out 'til much later that when my friends tried to call me, he'd tell them I didn't wanna talk. He basically cut me off from everyone but himself, so that I'd rely on him for everything. And I did, basically, it was his house I lived in and his money I spent.

"So then it went on like that. For, like, years. And once he knew I was hooked he started caring less, like he got bored, or something. I dunno. He started calling me when his lovers or whatever were there with him. He'd tell me he didn't wanna put boundaries on his love, or some bullshit, and I told myself I was fine with that 'cause, what else could I do? I was like some weird pet.

"Anyway, I kind of held it together for a while, 'cause if I made a fuss then he wouldn't like me. Then, I found a sock. Like, in the bed. I remember it so well, it was literally this stupid fucking dotted sock. And I knew it wasn't mine, it wasn't his, it wasn't the same as someone's fucking panties he might've taken home - he'd fucked someone in the bed. Like, our bed. And I wasn't out that much so he must've timed it, maybe even sent me out for groceries deliberately. He had, like, three fucking houses, it would've been so easy to avoid me altogether, but he like, got off on the fact that I was sleeping where he'd fucked some other dude.

"So, when he came home, I lost it. I just - it all came out, y'know, I shouted and screamed and cried and all that. And I guess he didn't like it, me standing up for myself like that. I should've seen it coming, I guess. He'd always been rough in bed, he'd made threats when we'd argued before."

Patrick stares. "He - he hurt you?"

Pete looks down at his lap. "Not before then. But, yeah, he punched me in the face and then tried to choke me. Then he stormed off. So I packed my things and left. The money for the cab was the last thing of his I used."

"Oh my god," Patrick says. "I'm so sorry."

Pete wipes his eyes and shrugs. "I'm glad he did it. If he hadn't made it physical I might never have noticed all the emotional abuse. So then I went back to my parents' house and sort of started over. I had to, kind of learn how to be myself, y'know? And I haven't had a proper relationship since. I never wanna  _ need  _ anyone again."

"That's awesome," Patrick says quietly. "You turned it all around."

Pete grins. "Yeah. So - don't worry about wasting time. I spent so long being angry that he took most of my twenties, y'know? But - you can't get it back. So, just gotta think of the time you have now."

"That's true," Patrick says.

"Anyway, that was a really long-winded way of saying that kindness is something I value a lot more than, like, whatever you think you don't have. I dunno, I just - saw that with you, I guess."

Patrick feels like he could cry. He wraps an arm around Pete and holds him close, kissing his cheek. "Thank you for sharing that with me," he says. Then he says, "I love you." It falls out of his mouth as smoothly as a wave drops to the sand.

"Well, fuck," Pete says, but he's grinning, his eyes full of old tears and new surprise. "I just might love you too."

Patrick giggles. "It's been less than two weeks. Are we idiots?"

"Dunno. Probably. I guess we'll find out," Pete says.

-

They do find out.

They spend the night making love as many times as they can bear. Patrick lets Pete fuck him again, and this time, it doesn't feel so strange. Patrick's learning that he's braver and and more adaptable than he ever expected. He's never felt love so potent, so consuming, never considered that soulmates might actually exist until he looks at Pete, sound asleep next to him, and tries to picture leaving him. They've still got three more days. He can figure something out.

It's when they're walking from the breakfast room, hand in hand, that Patrick sees her. She's sitting in the lobby, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes scanning the room. She spots them immediately. Patrick stops in his tracks as the illusion he's built begins to cave in on itself.

"Patrick?" she says, standing up, making straight for him.

Patrick gulps a mouthful of air in an attempt not to vomit. "Who's that," Pete says, looking right at her, then at Patrick, then back again. "Patrick, who is that?"

"She's - um, she's - she's - "

"I'm his wife," Connie says.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the shitstorm! A day early for I am doing Things with People over the weekend. Yes! Things! People! Excitement! 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Wife?" Pete says.

Patrick stares at him. Words don't magically appear. He feels as if someone's jammed a baseball down his throat.

"Not - ex-wife?" Pete asks. "Not divorced?"

Patrick looks at his shoes and shakes his head.

"No, not divorced," Connie says. When Patrick can bear to look at her, her eyes are full of tears. "Not divorced."

"I'm sorry," he squeaks, in lieu of another lie. "Not divorced."

"Patrick, what are you doing here," Connie says, even though she looks at Pete as if she already knows.

"So, this is your  _ current  _ wife, and she has no idea what you might be doing here," Pete spits. He looks as if he might throw Patrick through the automatic doors. His gaze turns to Connie. "He's doing  _ me,  _ by the way."

"It's not -" Patrick starts, but Pete cuts him off with his glare alone, and it hurts, it hurts like Pete smacked him.

"It's not what?" Pete snaps. "It's not what it looks like? It's not what I think it is?"

"No, I -"

"Did you use me to cheat on your wife?"

"I never meant to use you, I -"

"Yes or no!" Pete shouts. "Fucking yes or no!"

Patrick blinks at him, cowers under his gaze. All he can manage is a nod.

"Then that's all I need to know," Pete replies.

When he starts to walk away, Patrick jolts forward, grabbing Pete's wrist because Pete can't  _ leave.  _ In all versions of Patrick's future, they're together, they're happy. Pete flinches like he's been burned.

"Don't fucking touch me," he snarls. He hurries behind the reception desk and out of sight.

Patrick considers going after him. But Connie - his best friend of nearly a decade, his confidant, his rock - has gone through in under a minute what took Patrick two weeks even to contemplate. The breakdown of their marriage. The fracturing of their family. The realisation that everything -  _ everything  _ \- is going to change.

They've drawn a few stares. Patrick ducks away from them as he shepherds Connie towards the elevator.

It's no easier once they're alone. Patrick can feel her rage, her hatred, see the hurt on her face. He can't quite believe he's the cause of it. His two weeks of selfish paradise seem suddenly worthless.

She doesn't speak until they get to his room. Patrick tries to put together some kind of argument, think of one, single redeeming factor that might save him from all this, but he can't. Now that he thinks on it, there’s no justification for this. He is completely, utterly at her mercy.

"God," is the first thing she says. She looks around Patrick's room with something close to disgust. Patrick sinks onto the bed so that when he passes out, it won't hurt too much. "I don't even know where to start, Patrick. How long have you been lying?! Who's that - that  _ man?!" _

"He's -"

"Actually, I don't care," she says as if she’s alone in the room. "I know who he is, don't I? He's your - your - I don't even know! Lover?! How long have you been seeing him? How many others do you have?! Is there one in every state?! Or is he some, fucking, long-term affair? Why has  _ he  _ given me more information than you have?! Start fucking  _ talking,  _ Patrick!"

Patrick's brain spins. "Um - his - his name is -"

"I don't give a shit what his name is. How long has this been going on."

"Ten days," Patrick says. "I met him here, and he's the only one. I swear, he's the only one."

"Here," she says. "At this gay hotel. So you came looking for an affair."

"No!" Patrick says reflexively, "no, I didn't expect any of this, I came to, like, learn, or something -"

"Bullshit," Connie says. "That's bullshit, Patrick, and you know it. No-one books  _ two weeks  _ at a hotel if they're just there to  _ learn." _

Patrick begins to rip pieces off his bottom lip. "Okay. God, okay. Uh, honestly, I don't know what I was thinking. I - I know that sounds hard to believe, but I'd been thinking there was something wrong with me for, like, a few months at that point, and I just - didn't know what to do. I just had no fucking idea how to handle it."

"So you thought you'd go on a gay vacation?! And, and tell me that you were on a work trip? We worked at the same company, Patrick, all it took was me mentioning this to Mindy to find out there was no convention. And you took your  _ wedding ring  _ off?" 

"I'm so sorry," is all Patrick can think to say. "I'm so sorry. I've been so stupid, I should've just  _ talked  _ to you about it, but I was just, like -  _ hoping  _ it was all a mistake. I didn't want to be - be - to like men. I thought it was just some weird fetish, or something, so I came here instead of, like Grindr or whatever so I could show myself that I wasn't - what I thought I was. But I am. And I - I - I think I knew it all along. I just thought I could -" Patrick's voice cracks. "I dunno. Lie. To everyone, including myself."

Connie has started to cry. She hovers by the door as if she's contemplating running. "I just can't believe you'd  _ do  _ this - do  _ him - _ before you'd talk to me. I feel like I don't even know you! You were always so - so  _ reliable,  _ and I trusted you! More than anyone! How could you jeopardise that just - just for  _ sex? _ "

Patrick covers his face with his hands and chokes up tears. "It wasn't just sex," he says quietly. "That's - that's how I know. I just can't - I don't think I can be with a woman anymore."

Connie's breath catches in her throat. "Okay. So - so what does that mean? What is this, an experiment? Or - more?"

"It started as an experiment. And then it was more. And I kept moving the goalposts of - of when I'd admit it because I didn't wanna realise I - I've never been the man you thought I was, or  _ I  _ thought I was, and you deserve someone who loves you completely and wholly and - and I - I'm not that person."

It hurts. It aches, in the centre of his chest, it makes his heart crack against his ribs and his whole body shake. The only thing he seems capable of doing is crying, crippling sobs that wrack his bones and make his throat hurt.

"So - did you ever really love me?" Connie says. That she'd ever have to ask such a question makes Patrick feel like vomiting.

"Yes," he says instinctively. "I  _ wanted  _ to marry you. I wanted to be with you, you're so smart and beautiful and I don't regret it, I married my best friend, and I will always -  _ always  _ \- treasure that."

"If I'm your best friend, why wouldn't you talk to me," she asks.

"Because," Patrick tries, wiping his eyes on his wrist. It's already slick with tears. "Because, I didn't - I couldn't even admit it to myself, I couldn't risk losing you and the kids over something that wasn't true."

"But it is true. And you did risk it."

"I know," Patrick whimpers. "I know. Look - I get it if you never wanna see me again, but - please, let me see the boys. I know they're not mine but I just can't imagine never seeing them again, even if it's just calls or whatever, I'll still pay the bills, the mortgage, whatever you need. Just - whatever you need, or want, or whatever, I'll do. Even if you just want me to go away and never come back."

Connie sits at the other end of the bed and tears drip into her lap. "I can't think that far ahead right now, but I'm not gonna stop you seeing the boys," she says quietly. "That's up to them. Fuck, Patrick." She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I haven't even heard you say it yet. I want you to say it. I need something concrete."

"What do you mean," Patrick asks, even though he thinks he knows. "The - um, what I am?"

"God, have you  _ ever _ said it out loud?" she asks, exasperated.

Patrick sniffs wetly and purses his lips. He knows it's true. No amount of milestones made it easier to admit. "I'm - I'm gay."

Then he cries. He cries so hard he has to grab the box of tissues from the cabinet to mop up some of the moisture coating his face. And he  _ loathes  _ himself. Three decades of self-hatred has coiled in his chest, and it's only now he feels its full, sprung force. He wants to be someone else, anyone else.

"Is this it, then," Connie says sadly. Her cheeks shine with tears too. Patrick places the box of tissues in the space between them.

"I'm so sorry," Patrick says again. Each time he means it more. "I'm so sorry I made this so difficult. I'm so sorry I went about this in the worst possible way. I didn't mean for it to end like this. But - but it has to end. It has to end."

Connie nods. When she looks at him, she shakes her head. "Fuck, Patrick. This would be so much easier if it was all your damn fault."

"It  _ is,  _ " Patrick starts, but Connie waves a hand.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, a  _ lot  _ of it is your fault. A  _ lot.  _ But," she hiccups, and Patrick exhales, "but your  _ sexuality _ ? That's - that's hard to deal with. God. I - I think I need to go. I need space."

"Of course," Patrick says, "whatever you need. I'll - I'll go to my mom’s."

"You won't stay here? With that - man?" She says  _ man  _ as if she can't quite remember how to pronounce it.

Patrick shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't wanna see me ever again. I'll come home tonight. I can pick up some stuff whilst you're at work tomorrow."

Connie rests her hand against the doorknob. "Okay," she says quietly. "What was his name again?"

"Uh, Pete," Patrick says. "I'll - I'll call you over the weekend, if you want. Or just - email. Whatever you want."

"Email is fine," she says. "Bye, Patrick."

She slips out of the door.

Patrick pushes his fingers into his eyes until the colours begin to spin. The future is post-apocalyptic. He can't quite believe how much he's managed to destroy with his own hands. A nasty voice in his head wonders if the ceiling fan could take his weight.

He sips at the bottle of water by his bedside, focussing on the taste, the cold, the crush of the plastic under his hands. At least it stops them shaking.

Slowly, he begins to gather his belongings, carefully folding each item of clothing. It's therapeutic, somehow. His suitcase is the one thing that remains unchanged.

When there's a knock at the door, Patrick assumes it's room service. "Not now, thanks," he croaks.

"Open the door, Patrick, it's me," Pete's voice sounds.

Patrick's eyes fill with tears. He prepares himself for another beating and supposes he deserves it. When he opens the door, Pete's stare burns a hole through his chest.

"Look," Pete spits, shoving into the room and slamming the door behind him. "The  _ only  _ reason I have decided to hear you out is because your  _ wife - _ you know, the woman you betrayed - came and told me to talk with you. So either you've told her a whole lot of lies, or you've got something real good to say. Either way, you don't deserve her."

"I know," Patrick says, slumping back to the bed. "I know."

"So, how much of it was bullshit, then? Was all that stuff about never sleeping with a man just some fucking pity ploy?"

Patrick shakes his head. "No. I'd - I'd been having - thoughts. For a while. Only thoughts. And then it just got to the point where I had to like -  _ know.  _ So I chose here 'cause - 'cause I thought it would show me, like, actual gay people. Not porn stars, or guys just looking for sex. I dunno, it was stupid."

"No shit," Pete spits. "So I'm guessing this was all news to your wife? Or have you cheated on her before?"

"No! No," Patrick yelps, "I mean, yes, she didn't know. I'd never even considered cheating, I didn't even understand  _ why  _ someone would do that, just for sex. But - but -"

"But you did it anyway. Have you ever been cheated on, Patrick?"

Patrick shakes his head.

"It makes you feel like garbage. Like you're unloveable. It makes you never wanna trust anyone again. I don't give a fuck how far in the closet you've been, for how long, it's no excuse. No fucking excuse."

"I know," Patrick whimpers. "But I - I just - I know."

"What happens now, then," Pete says, folding his arms. "Divorce? Or did you manage to sweet-talk her into taking you back?"

Patrick frowns. "Why would I want her to take me back?"

Pete shrugs. "Well, isn't that the ideal for you closeted guys? The wife, the kids and the no-questions-asked boy-toy on the side? That's me, by the way. That's what you've made me into."

"No!" Patrick pleads, "no, we both need to move on. It's not fair, otherwise. I can't love her like I love you. It took all this mess for me to realise that."

But this just seems to make Pete angrier. "So, what would've happened if she hadn't turned up? What then? You'd have gone home, told her you fucked a dude and loved it and walked out the door? I find that hard to believe."

"I dunno what I'd have -"

"You'd have fucking carried on," Pete says. Patrick's tears begin to fall faster than he can mop them up. "Like nothing ever happened. Pretending to love her."

"I don't know!" he cries, "I don't know what I would've done! I'd like to think I'd go back and be honest with her, because I don't think I'm the type of guy to keep lying to her, but I didn't think I was the kind of guy to, fucking, book a vacation and have an affair, so, I don't even know anymore. I just know this has happened, and I can't go back, so I just have to somehow live with myself now, knowing that I'm this person."

"Surely you knew that was a possibility when you, y'know, booked a stay at a gay hotel," Pete says, but it's softer, laced with less malice, this time.

"I didn't think it would go like this," Patrick says weakly. "I know that sounds like an outright lie, but I mean it - most of me was thinking I'd stay a couple days, see that actually, gay guys aren't as sexy when they're not on film, and then go home and be, like, at peace, or whatever. But then I met you. And I kissed you, and it changed  _ everything." _

"Okay, so, you  _ found  _ yourself, or whatever," Pete says, "but you still lied to me. Even after I told you about my shitty ex."

"I know," Patrick replies, "I'm so sorry. I just, was in this fantasy land where I was like - someone else, and I didn't want it to end. I was being selfish. And I'm so sorry I hurt you."

Pete scrapes a hand across his face and sighs. "Well, what happens now?"

Patrick spreads his hands wide. "I don't know. I go home, I have to explain to my parents that not only am I gay, but I fucked a man behind my wife's back. Then I try to explain that to the kids, too. Then I arrange a divorce. Fuck," Patrick says, shutting his eyes, "I'm getting divorced."

The bed dips beside him and when he opens his eyes, Pete's sat next to him, the box of tissues in his lap. "Look," he says. "It was a shitty thing you did. A horrible thing. And it hurt the people who care about you most. And you knew it would hurt them, and you did it anyway."

Patrick nods, weeps. "I know."

"But," Pete starts, "you do know you're gonna be okay, right?"

Patrick looks at him blearily. "What do you mean?"

Pete gives him a sad smile. "I mean, things are gonna get better. The next few weeks and months are gonna be difficult, sure, but you've finally got to a point where you can be - well,  _ you. _ "

"But - I  _ hate  _ me," Patrick frowns. "I'm the biggest asshole ever."

"It's done," Pete says. "What matters now is how you deal with it. In the long run - and I mean the  _ really  _ long run - this is for the best. You're not lying anymore. You wife can find someone else, if she wants. And you can stop beating yourself up with all this endless guilt."

Patrick laughs a little. "I guess so," he says, and then he thinks about everything he's done and starts crying all over again. "I'm just so scared of being alone."

"Hey," he says, placing a hand on Patrick's arm. When Patrick turns to look at him, he passes Patrick a tissue. "You shouldn't be. I get it - I was scared, too. But being alone isn't so bad. And - until you're happy with who you are, you can't begin to love someone else, y'know?"

"I'm not happy," Patrick admits. "I'm happy with - like, some things. My family, mostly. But I hate - this," he gestures broadly to himself.

Pete's hand slips to his waist and Pete draws him into a hug. Patrick holds him as tight as he can, knowing he'll have to let go.

"You know I can't stay with you, right?" Pete says quietly as they drift apart.

"Yeah," Patrick nods, tears still oozing from his eyes. He stays close to Pete, taking in his features, the pain in his eyes. He's lovely even now.

Pete's hand settles on Patrick's neck, his thumb stroking along Patrick's jaw. Patrick closes his eyes and savours the touch. "It'll be okay," Pete murmurs. Then Patrick feels the push of Pete's mouth against his own and it's like he can breathe again - he surges towards Pete and kisses, kisses, kisses until Pete pulls away and looks Patrick in the eyes.

"You've got my number," Pete says. "Call me when you figure yourself out, 'kay?"

"Okay," Patrick replies. "I will."

Pete gives his hand a last, gentle squeeze and rises from the bed.

When the door swings shut, Patrick wonders how a moment so final can feel so like a new beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to leave a comment, you may now address me as Panda BA (Hons) as I've finally received certification for my ongoing idiocy. No I don't know what Hons means, Yes I insist upon it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Enjoy!

  
  


Patrick's early. After stressing himself out over being late, he finds himself sitting in his car with ten minutes to kill; during those ten minutes he becomes more stressed than being late could ever make him.

With two minutes to spare, he knocks on the door. It's a nice house - Patrick wonders if anyone would notice if he threw up in one of the flowerbeds. There's a scratching sound behind the door. Patrick imagines it’s his demons wrestling over which one of them gets to drag him to hell.

In reality, it's a dog. A tiny, fluffy dog that goes straight for Patrick's ankles and rubs up against them. "Hey, little lady," Patrick smiles.

"Hey," the woman at the door says. "You must be Patrick?"

"Oh, yeah," he says absently, watching the tiny dog try to climb up his jeans. "Uh - hi."

"Come on in," the woman says. Her name is Anne. It said so on her website, in calm, cursive font. She's an older lady with purple hair and a kind face. "Pepper, leave him alone," she hisses at the dog.

"No, she's fine," Patrick says, leaning to tickle the dog behind her ears. "She's adorable. I'm cured."

Anne laughs, shutting the door and leading him up a curled staircase. There are family photos dotted along the walls – one shows a wedding day with two brides. "Coffee? Tea?" she asks as they enter a small room with a big window and two large, comfy chairs. It's not at all what Patrick was expecting. He'd thought it would be more - clinical.

"Coffee's great," he says. It'll give him something to do with his hands.

"Sure, have a seat."

As soon as he sits down, the dog jumps in his lap, her big dark eyes gazing up at him. His hands are shaking as he pets her - he's been worrying about today for weeks. The small talk is all a ruse. So is the coffee. It’s probably laced with truth serum, or something. 

"Thanks for filling out the questionnaire," Anne says eventually, sitting opposite him. Patrick clutches his coffee as if it's a safety harness. "Was there something in particular that made you want to try counselling?"

Patrick nearly laughs. He feels like he's had to repeat the story every day since he came home. Each retelling seems to gore him more.

Still, he takes her through it. The lying, the cheating, the collapsing of everything over his head. He watches her face for signs of hatred, of judgement, but finds none. When he's done, he half expects her to tell him he's beyond repair.

Instead, she just nods. "And how have you been coping with this change?"

Patrick looks squarely at the dog. "Um, I don't really know. Some days are okay. Other times it feels like I can't live with myself."

"Why not?"

"Um," he starts, a lump appearing in his throat. "I just - I hurt so many people. And - I don't think I realised how much I relied on my wife for, like, support, and company and stuff. I miss her," he says. "I really miss her."

"Patrick," she says gently. "Have you ever had thoughts about harming yourself? Or ending your life?"

Tears spring to Patrick's eyes when _no_ isn't the first answer to come to mind. "Um. I - I - I guess so."

"Have you had these thoughts recently?"

It makes Patrick squirm. "Only thoughts," he says. She offers him the box of tissues and he takes it gratefully, dabbing at his eyes and nose. "I'd never actually - y'know."

Anne writes something down in her small, flowery notebook. Probably _nutcase._

"Before you came out, did you contemplate hurting yourself?"

"I don't know. There were low points, yeah. But I didn't have anything to be sad about, so, I dunno."

"You were a gay man in a heterosexual relationship," she says matter-of-factly.

Patrick stays quiet. He's already talked too much. He feels raw. He'd thought counselling would help heal his wounds, not slit them all open again.

"What do you hope to get out of counselling?" she asks eventually.

Patrick stares at the dog. It's submerged in his lap, now, its head on his belly. "Um. Honestly? I think I sort of wanted you to just tell me none of this is my fault. But - but I dunno. I want to change. I want to be a better person."

"What aspects of yourself would you change, if you could?"

Patrick laughs. "I dunno. Everything. I'm a lost cause looks wise, but I always thought, _hey, at least I'm a nice guy._ And then I did this. So now I haven't even got that going for me. I've just failed at so many things. Being a - a father, being a husband, a son.”

“Okay,” she says thoughtfully. “Why do you think you’ve failed as a son?”

Patrick shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve moved back in with my mom, for a start. She - tries, y'know. But I'm not sure if she really gets it. The gay thing."

"How did she react when you first told her?"

-

She cries. He knew she would - she cried when they watched _Ratatouille -_ but this time it's different. She's weeping _for_ him, for the person she thought he was, for the 'normal life' he's left behind.

"I don't understand how you couldn't have known," she tells him, clutching her herbal tea as they sit at opposite ends of her ugly, comfortable couch. "Why now?"

Patrick doesn't know the answer to this either. Instead, he tells her about what he did. It doesn't get easier the third time around.

"I didn't think I raised a cheater," she says, dabbing at her eyes under her glasses. "Poor Connie. She's such a lovely girl."

"I know," Patrick replies. Any hope that his mom might, possibly, go easy on him slips away with the steam from her tea. "I'm sorry."

She just shakes her head. She hasn't looked at him in a while. They watch Grey's Anatomy in silence until Patrick begins to fall asleep.

"Bedtime, I think," she says, her hand clasping his wrist. Patrick smiles weakly and begins to extract himself from the couch. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Thanks," he says. There are still tears in her eyes. He's made three people cry in one day. "Night, mom."

He shuffles to the guest room, battered and drained. He can't quite believe he's breathing. The world has ended, and he's still alive.

-

"And did you?" Anne asks. "Talk the next day, I mean."

"Yeah. She gave me a hug and stuff. I think she sort of realised I was like - still the same person. She just wants me to be happy. I guess that's the difference between her and dad."

"What's your relationship with your father like?"

Patrick takes the dog's paw in between his thumb and forefinger and strokes over each one of its tiny toes. "He's a bully. He was never violent or anything, he just - he was a man's man. I guess he wanted me and my brother to be like him."

"Have you told him, yet?" Anne asks.

Patrick nods.

-

"You're - gay?" Patrick's dad says. They haven't spoken for a few months, and even now, it's only over the phone.

"Yeah," Patrick sighs. "I know it's a long time coming, but -"

"No, you're not," his dad says. "Come on, Rick, don't be stupid."

"You - don't believe me?" Patrick says. It wasn't what he was expecting.

"You could be a ladies’ man if you tried. You just never had the confidence."

"The confidence? To - date women? You know I was married, right?" Patrick says.

"Was?"

"Yeah, I'm getting a divorce. Because of the gay thing."

Patrick's dad laughs. "Look, you shouldn't be so hasty. I know a guy who's married - he's always messing around with guys on the side. Sometimes wives just don't put out enough, y'know?"

“Well, I –“

“Tell her to step it up, or get over it. Wanting your dick sucked every so often isn’t grounds for divorce,” he laughs.

"Uh, b - b - b - but," Patrick starts, stops, and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. It always comes at the worst times.

"B - b - but what?" he mocks, "spit it out. Or do you usually swallow?"

"But," Patrick finally manages, "I like men. I want to be with a man."

For a few seconds, all Patrick can hear is breathing. All the times his dad's used the word 'fag' are ringing in his ears. What he can't do, under any circumstances, is cry.

"Well," his dad says, as if the conversation's nearly over, as if _all_ their conversations are nearly over, "you do what you like. But a man's gotta sow his seed."

"Gross."

"It's true. You'll want kids, someday, and you won't get them by ploughing some dude. Wait - you don't - you're the alpha, right?"

"What," Patrick says.

"You're - y'know, the meat in the sandwich."

"I don't know what you mean. You'll have to be clearer."

"The man," he says. "I don't mind you fucking guys but you better not be some dude's bitch."

"Is that how you see sex, dad? With you as the _alpha_? As the one in control? Do you see every woman you sleep with as your bitch? 'Cause, from where I'm standing, it looks like mom has three kids who talk to her, a roof over her head that wasn't put there by daddy's credit card, and an intact liver, so who's the real bitch?"

His dad hangs up. This time, when Patrick cries, it isn't just out of despair.

-

"It sounds like you were able to stand up for yourself," Anne says. "Had you done that much in the past?"

Patrick thinks back to awkward fourth of July barbecues and Christmases spent wishing it was mom's turn. Has he ever raised his voice to his dad? Even as a rebellious teen? Or did his rebellious phase just come fifteen years late?

"No," he says eventually. "I guess that was kind of a turning point."

"Have you spoken to him since then?"

"Nah. He doesn't really deserve to be any more involved in my life. I guess that's why I was so afraid of, like, divorce and stuff. I didn't wanna end up like him, with children who won't even talk to me."

“Do your children talk to you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick nods. “Just about.” The conversation hadn’t been easy.

-

"How can you be splitting up?" Owen says, his fists already curled around one of the sofa cushions. "What the hell?"

"I know it's a shock, but it's not because we hate each other," Patrick says as calmly as he can. "It's - it's just something that needs to happen."

"Why," says Toby. He's looking at Patrick like the summer vacation has been cancelled. "Did you have a fight?"

Beside Patrick, Connie shakes her head. "No. We're not fighting. We just can't be with each other anymore. But we still love you both, and we'll still be your parents."

" _He's_ not my parent," Owen says, jabbing a finger in Patrick's direction. "Will we have to move again? 'Cause I only just made new friends!"

"No," Patrick says. "I’ll be moving out, but you'll all still live here."

"You're not gonna be here anymore?" Toby says, his lip wobbling.

"I won't live in the same house," Patrick says. "But I won't be far away. I'll still see you guys, and you can come and stay with me, like you do with your dad."

"This is bullshit," Owen says, standing up and storming across the room. "Call me when he's gone." He slams the door behind him.

Toby's started to cry. Patrick opens his arms, and to his relief, Toby hurries into them, letting Patrick cuddle him tight. "Don't worry, sweetie," Patrick says softly. "I'm still gonna see you all the time."

"Will you still tell me bedtime stories?" he whispers.

"Of course," Patrick says, wiping the tears off Toby's cheeks with his thumb. "I love our bedtime stories. Which one's your favourite?"

"Um, the one about the alien spy," Toby says.

"Ah, good choice," Patrick nods sagely. "Shall we do that one tonight?"

"Yeah," Toby says. "Will you help me build a castle out of boxes?"

Patrick laughs. "That sounds like a pretty big project. Why don't we do that at the weekend? I'm sure grandma would love a castle in her living room."

"Okay," Toby smiles, then begins to tire of the hug and squirms out of Patrick's grasp. "Can I play on your laptop?"

"Sure."

With that, he's gone, running off as fast as his little legs will carry him. Patrick looks at Connie. "I think that could've gone worse," she says. She looks tired. "I'll talk to Owen. He's just angry I'm doing this to him again."

"I'm so sorry," Patrick says quietly. "Tell him it's all my fault."

Connie gives him a weak smile. "Nah. There's no use playing sides. And - it's not your fault." She puts her hand on his arm, then, light and gentle. It's the most contact they've had in three weeks. There are tears in her eyes as she stares at her own fingers, the way they dimple Patrick’s skin. "It makes sense. All the - trouble, we had, y'know. I thought maybe you'd lost interest in me."

Patrick shakes his head. "No. No, you're - gorgeous. And that's like, one of the reasons I knew something wasn't right. If I wasn’t attracted to you, I couldn’t be attracted to any woman."

She laughs a little, laced with sadness, then drops her hand to her lap. "I gotta say - I'm gonna need a bit of space. I know you wanna be involved with the boys, and if they wanna go, maybe you could take them, or they could go with their dad - I dunno. You've just gotta realise that I'm still, y'know - in love with you. And if we're gonna make this work, I need time to get over you."

"Of course," Patrick says. "Sure. I've been booked for bedtime tonight, but I can stay out of the way. You won't even know I'm here, I swear."

The familiar beat of Owen's music begins to bleed through the walls. Even this, Patrick misses. Connie looks up at the ceiling and sighs. "I'd better go talk to him."

"Thanks," Patrick says quietly. He watches her slip from the room, and feels like an alien in the house he once called home.

-

“So – you’ve already avoided becoming like your father,” Anne observes.

Patrick shrugs, wiping at his face. Thinking about the kids always seems to make him cry. “I dunno. It’s just not fair, is it. They went through all this with their real dad. It’s not fair.”

“Do you think staying married to your wife would have been fairer?”

“I guess not,” Patrick sniffs, “but realising it earlier would’ve.”

"Do you regret not realising you were gay earlier?"

"Yes," Patrick says with a sob, "yes, I do. I've hurt so many people, I wasted five years of my wife's life, I've let my parents down, I - I -"

"Take a deep breath, Patrick," she says calmly.

Patrick gulps down a few mouthfuls of air and lets the dog climb up his chest and lick his chin. "I just," he breathes, "I just feel as if I can't fix this, y'know."

"Sometimes, you can't repair the damage," she tells him. "You just have to let yourself, and everyone else, move on."

"But I _can't_ move on," Patrick says, "how can I forgive myself for this? _Should_ I forgive myself?"

"Punishing ourselves for mistakes rarely makes anyone feel better," she says. "If your son told you that he was gay, would you ever suggest he hadn't come out soon enough?"

"Of course not," Patrick dismisses, "that would be awful."

Anne raises an eyebrow. "So why do you berate yourself for it?"

Patrick thinks on this. "I dunno," he says quietly.

After a few moments, Anne reads back through her notes. “How are you negotiating co-parenting?”

Patrick sighs. "I haven't seen much of Owen, but - I dunno. He's got a lot going on right now. All we can do is keep telling him things will get better, I guess. Toby stays with me quite often. That's been - yeah, thats been really nice, actually."

"So, you're able to look after the kids without your wife's support?"

Patrick scoffs, and the dog stares at him. "Yeah, of course. They're basically my kids, why wouldn't I be able to look after them?"

"Your dad wasn't able to look after you," Anne says. "And you've managed so far to maintain a good relationship with your wife. As I said, you’re already doing better than your dad."

“I guess so,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t really believe it. As far as he’s concerned, their delicate ecosystem could self-destruct at any given moment. "And your sexuality," she says lightly, "are you managing to come to terms with it?"

Patrick lets out a slow breath. "I dunno, really. Sometimes I feel like I made it all up. Sometimes I don't think it was worth it, y'know. Why couldn't I have just kept quiet. Our marriage was better than most."

"It's okay to second guess yourself. Lots of gay people - myself included - might feel as if we don't belong. Or that, as you said, it might be easier to live in a heterosexual relationship. But, would that have been fair to your wife? Or to yourself?"

"I dunno," he says, shrugging. "Thinking of myself is what got me in this mess in the first place."

"What do you like about yourself?"

"What?" Patrick says. "What do you mean?”

“You don’t seem to think that you’ve had any positive impact on anyone in your life, which from what you’ve told me, seems untrue. So, what do you like about yourself?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, staring at the dog for inspiration. The dog has fallen asleep. “Nothing, really.” 

"Five things you like about yourself. Go."

Patrick's mouth flaps. "I don't know. Like, appearance? Or - innate, like, qualities?"

"Anything."

"Okay," he says, already stressed. He looks down at himself, his squashy body slumped in the squashy chair. The dog looks more comfortable than Patrick's ever felt in his life. "Um - I give good hugs?" It seems a poor excuse for _fat,_ but it's something.

"Good hugs, sure. Keep going."

"Uh, I'm usually on time," he says. "So I'm, like, pretty reliable, I guess."

Anne nods, smiles.

"I'm quite, uh. Clean? Does that count? Like, I look after myself?"

"That's great. And important," she encourages.

"I can sort of play guitar. I'm not super good, but -"

"Ah-ah," she tuts. "This is a deprecation-free exercise. One more."

"Okay," Patrick laughs. "Um. I'm - uh. I dunno. I have a pretty good smile. I guess everyone has nice smiles, but - yeah. I like mine."

"Lovely," she says. "You see, a lot of the time, negative thoughts just need challenging. You said earlier that your looks were a lost cause, but actually, you've got a lovely smile, and you're well-groomed. And it’s the same with the situation you're in now - yes, it may not have gone the way you'd planned. You may have hurt people you love. But there are a lot of positives to this situation - for instance, you've realised this at an age where you've been able to make responsible decisions. You're able to support yourself and you've identified that you'd like to seek help. The fact that you're here right now shows that you're able to hold yourself accountable for your actions and make positive changes. You've already started to challenge negative thoughts."

Patrick frowns. He's not sure about that, but he nods anyway.

"On that note, I'm gonna give you some homework. Every day this week, I'd like you to write down something you like about yourself. In the morning, before you go to bed, whenever you have a spare minute. Just one thing that's positive. Do you think you could do that?"

Patrick's need to please and his compulsion to self-deprecate battle against one another. "Um. Sure."

They end the session there. Patrick thought he'd feel better than he does. Instead, he feels worn out. Breakable. Sensitive.

-

But slowly, very slowly, it begins to feel better. It's like a martial art - each cracked bone heals stronger the next time.

Sometimes, he'll look at himself in the morning and his heart will sink, because he's ugly, and old, and sad. Sometimes, after thinking these things, he makes an effort to _not_ think them. Sometimes he'll even say, out loud, that he looks handsome. Sometimes it doesn't help. Sometimes it does. Sometimes, he doesn't need to say he's handsome - he just thinks it, unprompted. Sometimes, he's somewhere near _happy._

He moves into an apartment a few miles from Monterey. It’s small, but so are the kids, and there’s a spare room that Patrick dedicates to them. He learns to cook for one, and then for three, and then for five, when his mother’s over and Connie comes to pick up the boys. Slowly, his life refills itself. 

He finds himself in a dressing room for the first time in ten years. It's easier to buy a pack of XXL shirts and hide in them until they fall off him - but _easy_ doesn't always mean _healthy,_ so, armed with a brain full of men's fashion articles, he tries on new things. Outfits. With matching shoes and everything. 

All the shyness in the world couldn’t prevent him from feeling the flutter of warmth in his chest as he looks at himself in the mirror and sees a man he’s wanted to be for years. Maybe it’s the bright, flowery shirt - maybe it’s that everything _fits_ him - maybe it’s the sense that he’s looking significantly...gayer. Whatever it is, it suits him. 

He takes another surfing lesson. The instructor isn’t so hot, this time, but Patrick rides two waves before anyone else manages to stand up and feels very smug about it. He’s exhausted, afterwards - the good kind of exhausted, where his head clears and sleep comes easy. 

One evening, he ventures out to a bar. According to Marge and Suzie's surprisingly popular Instagram, it's a good spot for more relaxed socialising. It's the second bar he’s set foot in as a gay man. He orders a drink and looks through his journal - a welcome side-effect of counselling - until somebody leans against the bar next to him.

The man is older than him, with greying hair and a slim physique. He orders drinks for himself and his friends. There's nothing about him that indicates he's gay other than the way he brushes Patrick's shoulder as he talks to the bartender. When their eyes meet, Patrick smiles. The man smiles back, then ponders over the whiskey selection.

"If you're into scotch, the Lagavulin is divine," Patrick says, taking a sip from his glass.

The man quirks an eyebrow at him. "Okay, I'll hold you to that," he says. His gaze flits over Patrick's body, and Patrick feels heat rush to his cheeks.

"I hope you do," Patrick replies, and the man laughs. It's silly, but Patrick feels a spark of excitement, an instant attraction that he hasn't felt in years. A confidence he's only seen glimpses of.

The man drifts back to his table, and Patrick grins into his glass. If he plays his cards right, he could take that man home tonight.

He hasn't kissed anyone since Pete. The first few months seemed to pass in a blur, with no room for romance, but now, he thinks what it might be like to wake up with somebody. He casts a glance towards the man. When the man looks back, Patrick doesn't feel the urge to cower, nor the urge to throw himself at the man in search of validation. That's when it hits Patrick. He's - content.

He scrolls through his phone until Pete's name stares out at him. He's done this precisely three times since they parted ways, each time losing his nerve once some source of anxiety got in the way. Now, he thinks he finally knows what Pete meant by _figure yourself out._ He doesn't need Pete. But, by God, he wants him.

He taps the green button before he can change his mind.

ONE YEAR LATER

Patrick doesn't tan easily. His two states are pale or sunburnt, and there isn't much in-between. But his arms, after a few months of living by the ocean, have darkened ever so slightly. He can only see the difference when he compares them to his thighs. There's no white line around his ring finger anymore. Not even if he squints.

There's other marks, though. New ones. A tide of freckles sweeps across his shoulders because when in the sea, why keep a shirt on? When he rubs his fingers together, he can feel the callouses building from his guitar strings (he's getting better, one chord at a time). His shins are littered with scrapes and bruises from his surfboard, but if he flexes his arms _just_ right, he can see the shallow curve of muscle that has emerged after countless afternoons spent wrenching himself on top of a wave. His body is a map, a masterpiece of his own making.

When fingers trace the hills of his hips, he turns, smiles, and Pete smiles back. “Asleep, yet?” he asks, sand rolling rough between his fingertips and Patrick’s belly.

“Not quite,” Patrick sighs, pushing himself onto his elbows. The sun has crept halfway beneath the horizon, shards of wet sand glowing pink between their towels and the sea. Toby’s head bobs above the waves, a tennis ball flying between he and his reluctant brother.

“We should probably give Owen a break,” Pete says. His hair is curled with moisture and flecked with sand.

Patrick makes an uncertain sound. “Probably,” he says, making no effort to move. “Or we could stay very still, and maybe they won’t notice we’re here.”

Pete laughs, waves a hand. “They’re fine. It’s nice, actually. I’m better with kids than I thought I’d be.”

Patrick looks at him. He’s been wonderful. Patrick’s told him so. From the first awkward meeting to this, seven days of twenty-four-hour children, he’s taken it in his stride. The kids paid more attention to his tattoos than the fact that he’s a man. “Y’know, Toby’s been telling his friends that he’s got three dads,” Patrick says.

A grin blossoms over Pete’s face. “That’s sweet. A little creepy, but – sweet.”

“You’ve been great with Connie, too,” Patrick says. “She _loves_ that hotel room. _Loves_ it.”

One of the benefits of moving in with the owner of a beachside hotel is, as Pete disclosed over a family dinner, free vacations. Any hard feelings between them quickly dissolved once a free sea-view hotel room was put on the table. Patrick refuses to think of it as bribery. In reality, it’s just Pete being kind.

Eighteen months ago, the age-old _it’s what’s inside that counts_ would’ve seemed like bullshit to Patrick. Now, he knows its value – he would not be here, sitting on the beach where he fell in love, fell apart, if it weren’t for Pete’s forgiveness, his honesty, his compassion. He certainly wouldn’t be here, watching his children laugh and play and grow, if it weren’t for Connie’s understanding, sensitivity, care. He’s relied on kindness, every step of this twisting journey. He’s even managed to turn it upon himself.

He kisses Pete softly, Pete’s stubble rough against the pads of his fingers and sea salt ripe on his tongue. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I love you.”

Pete grins against Patricks mouth. “I love you too,” he murmurs. He kisses Patrick’s bottom lip twice. “But I think the kids are looking at us.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, a tennis ball sails towards them and bounces in the sand at their feet. By the shore, Toby beckons them, his skinny arms flailing.

Patrick picks up the ball and sighs. “We’re up.”

“Race you to the sea,” Pete grins all of a sudden, and the next moment, he’s off, scrambling off the beach towel in a flurry of sand and bolting off down the beach. And there’s really nothing Patrick can do except bolt after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's followed along with this, it's been fun! Come talk to me @the-chaotic-panda if you like - dunno what I'll be moving on to next but it'll probably be something with lots more wizards.


End file.
